A Little Glimpse of Leg
by Forestwater
Summary: Yakko is a cop in NY, doesn't drink, and never touches anyone except to shake hands. He's a good boy, and though toons call him a traitor, at least he has food on his table. And to think, all it had cost him were his sibs...You really do get used to anything, I guess. Just ask Minerva Mink. T for sexual references and for being dark/angsty. (Hello Nurse also a major character)
1. The Girls

A/N: This should really be under Angst and Romance as well as Drama and Family (and who knows what else, really?) so if you don't like cheerful cartoon fandoms having the crap depressed out of them, then you know where the back button is. Anyway, I hope you like it.

**A NOTE ABOUT THE COVER IMAGE: **I was previously using the gorgeous picture by LittleTiger488, but then I discovered my (mediocre) ability to use Paint to create my own covers! So, despite my inability to draw, I decided to make my own. Which means that there are a LOT of people I owe credit to for this, since it was with their kind permission that I was able to use their work. In no apparent order:

1. The picture of the Warners (top): This was done by the immensely talented AyakoOtani, and I have never seen so lovely a picture of the adult Warners. The great thing is that, aside from the fact that I picture Wakko bigger and Yakko smaller, this is EXACTLY how I thought they'd grow up to look! Seriously, go look at the beautiful image in full at htt*p:/*/ayakootani*.deviant*art.*com/art*/Colored *-Sketch-Warner-Sibs-327469114

Just remove the asterisks and ogle its amazingness!

2. The font was taken from cooltext.*com, where you can design lots of fun logos and titles. I went with neon because I liked the showgirl sleaziness it implies, which is pretty fitting for the story.

3. The image of Minerva Mink came from MawsCM and can be found here: htt*p:/*/mawscm.*deviantart.*com/art*/More-Minerva *-Mink-246903827

4. Hello Nurse was done by crazedg: htt*p:/*/crazedg.*deviantart.*com/art*/Helloooo-Nu rse-284205047

5. Emily is kind of hard to see, sadly (this whole picture ended up smaller than I'd hoped), but I made her using a Princess Maker, which is REALLY fun to play with and can be found right here: htt*p:/*/ww*w.*dolldivine.*com/princess-maker.*php

I mean, it allows you to create a Disney princess that isn't rail-skinny; how could I resist? :)

Thank you so much to everyone who allowed me to use their work, and don't forget to check out their other stuff, because it's all excellent.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE: The Girls<p>

"Ugh." There was a sharp thump and the door flew back on its hinges, smashing into the wall. A rectangle of watery light did little to illuminate an apartment that was too small and cluttered for a hamster to live in comfortably. Of course, a hamster didn't live there.

A mink did.

Well, a mink and her cat, Mister, who was curled up under the couch when the apartment's owner arrived. He knew by now that hiding was the best option when she got home from work, especially when it was late and she was in a foul mood. And at three in the morning, with her hair a mess that resembled a beehive, her dress falling off her shoulders and torn at the knee, and lipstick smeared in the fur around her mouth, Minerva Mink was one wolf-whistle away from homicide.

She slammed the door shut, cursing as her living room was drenched in blackness, and fumbled for the light. Once she could see her way to the couch, she collapsed onto it; Mister barely avoided being crushed under the furniture's broken springs, and once he was sure that Minerva wouldn't throw him across the room in a fit of mindless rage, leapt onto her lap and purred.

Her expression softened at her friend, and her fingers absently stroked his fur. "La da da da, da da dee," she sang in a whisper. "It's not pretty being me . . . _ugh._" She hated that damn song. Singing it every night in a dress that was becoming increasingly shiny in the seat and threadbare at the hem, in front of what felt like thousands of slobbering men . . . well, that killed any novelty the tune might have had. When she'd asked her boss if she could sing something, _anything_ else, the woman had raised one perfect eyebrow and said, "The audience likes what you're doing. For now, you keep doing it. It's part of the job."

Minerva wasn't known for her brains, but she got the message, and she would learn to be okay with it. So she was a one-trick pony. There were worse things to be. Like unemployed.

The ten years since _Animaniacs!_ ended had not been kind to Minerva Mink. "But really," she said to Mister, stroking his head, "have they been kind to anyone?" She tilted her head back and felt her hair crunch. With a groan, she raised a hand to it, feeling hairspray, a straw wrapper, and . . . "_Ugh!_" She pulled the rubbery object out of her hair, watching out of the corner of her eye as a string of milky fluid formed a tenuous bridge between her fur and the . . . the thing. She flung it into a nearby garbage can, hauling herself to her feet and staggering toward the bathroom. Once she felt like the worst of the scum was washed off, she made it to her bed and fell asleep.

Another day survived.

"Good morning, Dot!"

The impossibly cute Dot Warner (she'd given up on "Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana-Fanna Bo Besca, The Third" unless she was trying to impress a guy; it was just too long) glanced up from one of the magazines that the waiting room staff had apparently decided people seeking therapy needed. This one was full of never-before-seen sex tips, a claim that she doubted but lacked the experience to dispute. "Yeah," she muttered when she saw who it was. "It's that time again, huh?"

As it did every time she heard that phrase, voices echoed in her head: _"To watch me make bubbles with my spit?" "To do something cuuuuute?"_ She suppressed a smile, knowing that any sign of cheer would only encourage her psychologist and make her even more insufferable.

Mary Hartless beamed at her. "Why, yes it is! I see you're just as sunny as ever!" She giggled, a sound that reminded Dot of a horse's whinny, and led her into her office. Rifling through her papers, she added, "And how has your week been?"

She ignored her shrink's question, taking her time to look around. No matter how many weeks she was forced here, she could never quite get used to the room. Pictures of famous movie stars and clippings of articles that Mary had written coated the walls and even the ceiling; though this had once been Dr. Scratchansniff's office, any sign of the old man was long gone. Though she wouldn't dare say so to anyone else, she missed him. "And how many of your clients tried to kill you this week?" she asked instead, leaning back on the pink leather couch that was available for psychos like her. Where did one _get_ a pink leather couch? Dot decided to steal it, knowing she'd spend the rest of their hour-long session idly making plans to get it into her car.

Mary flushed as pink as her couch. "That's not what I asked," she said, losing the exclamation points for once. The color of her cheeks indicated that the number of attempted murders was between two and five; the trouble with being a tabloid reporter with no respect for anyone else's privacy and then switching your career to movie-star shrink was that a lot of your tabloid victims were also your clients. It was a dangerous move, though Dot had to admit that at least she could still make use of her phony-cheerful voice.

Normally Dot was willing to play along with Mary Hartless's games, pretending to see butterflies in inkblots and car accidents in scribbles if it would make the hour go faster, but today she just wasn't in the mood. In fact, she was bored, and there was only one thing she could do about that. "My week's _sucked!"_ she wailed. "I'm _pregnant_! By my _father_, which is so traumatic that I might need to spend _years_ in this fluffy little room with _you_ just to begin to _heal_! And I _can't_ tell my brothers because they'll be _furious_!" She thought she might be laying it on a little thick, but she was known for overacting and couldn't help herself. "And I think I've opened a _rift_ deep in my _brain_, because all of a sudden I burst into random _fits_ of speaking _Hebrew_!" She didn't know a word of Hebrew, so she babbled nonsense for a few moments. "Oh _no!_ It happened _again_!" she shrieked, pulling at her hair.

Mary was scribbling in her notebook feverishly, her eyes alight with excitement. "Dot, darling, you're making terrific progress! I think soon we'll discover the source of your insanity, and then you will begin to feel much better! Is there any more? Has your father always acted like this towards you?"

Dot couldn't believe what she was seeing. She'd never in a million years expected the woman to believe a word of that. "Shrinkie, darling, do you really not know bullshit when you see it?" she snapped, surprising herself into telling the truth. "I've never met my father, and you know that! It's on file. And you seriously thought that was Hebrew? _How_ did you get a college degree?"

She looked down at her hands. "I didn't, exactly." She pointed to the framed Master's hanging behind her in a jerky, reluctant movement. "I made that on Photoshop."

Dot rolled her eyes and climbed to her feet. "I think you've just proved how useless this is," she said. An idea occurred to her, and a smile spread across her face. "Thanks, Shrinkie! I think I'll be able to convince Plotz to let me stop coming here once he realizes you're full of it!" She was positively glowing now, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Mary blinked, startled by the rapid-fire mood swings. She picked up her notebook, which had fallen to the ground at some point during Dot's tirade, and began to write in slow, loopy letters. "'Bi . . . polar . . . disorder . . ." she muttered as she scrawled.

Dot laughed, feeling much better now that she knew she was out of here for good. "It's not bipolar anything," she said, giggling and striking a little pose. "It's just me." She picked up the pink leather couch with a grunt of effort and shoved it into her purse, which Wakko had designed for her twenty-first birthday earlier that week; it worked just like his Gag Bag, but instead of being old and dingy, it was blue with yellow flowers. At least _one_ of her brothers knew the way to her heart, that was for sure. As she made her way to the door, the purse clunking heavily with each step, she added, "You know, Scratchy would never have fallen for that. He may have been a bit of an idiot, but he was still a pro."

Mary Hartless's eyes, which had dulled with embarrassment, burst into life again. "And how does that make you —"

The door slammed shut.

The Ink and Paint Club had been around since the 1940's, at least; it was a ToonTown Historical Monument, and still one of the most popular bars in California. Sure, some women muttered that it was nothing better than a strip joint, but — as any man would testify, with varying levels of disappointment — clothes always remained on, and the worst (or the best, depending on who you asked) that anyone could expect was a glimpse of upper thigh. All in all, it had a good reputation and very good business, especially once the star act became manager. To the average citizen, The Ink and Paint Club was the ideal evening destination.

Emily Irish wasn't an average citizen, but she was young, she was trusting, and more importantly, she was desperate. Sitting in the closet-sized space outside the manager's office, clutching a red backpack to her not-inconsiderable chest and feeling her belt cut into her even-less-inconsiderable stomach, she had the sweaty palms and shaky limbs of someone who was nearing the end of her rope.

"You've managed an interview, at least," she whispered to herself. "That's half the battle right there." She took out the flier and smoothed it on her lap. _Female performers wanted_, it read in pink cursive above a green phone number.

The door to the office opened, and the most gorgeous woman Emily had ever seen — and having been in plenty of Disney films, she'd seen her share — stuck her head out, a swath of red hair falling over one eye. "Miss Irish?" she said coolly.

Stunned, Emily struggled to her feet, throat dry and heart pounding. _If I have to be as beautiful as her, I'm doomed_, she thought to herself. _Heck, if I have to be HALF as beautiful, I might as well walk out now._

She was ushered into the office and collapsed into the first chair she saw. The woman raised one eyebrow but said nothing, slinking to her desk and sitting behind it. "You _are_ a miss, aren't you?"

Emily stared at her blankly. "A what?"

"A miss. Not a missus. Unmarried."

She swallowed. "Oh! Yes, I'm not married. I mean, no, I'm not married. And yes, I'm a miss. Obviously."

There was a moment of silence as both of them tried to figure out what the hell she'd said. Then the redhead nodded. "Good. I don't like to hire married women. It's nothing personal, but sometimes the husbands get jealous. I don't like scandal," she added with finality.

Emily shook her head so violently that her headband fell off, unleashing her black, springy hair to bounce all over the place. "No, ma'am —"

"Mrs. Rabbit."

"M-Mrs. Rabbit, me neither. I hate scandal. I loathe it. I have never been part of a scandal in my entire life."

Her interviewer was polite enough not to say, "I can tell," but Emily could tell that she was thinking it. "So you're a Disney character? Not a princess, I assume."

She flushed a bit, and Mrs. Rabbit wrote something on the pad in front of her. By craning her neck slightly, she could read the words,_ Nice coloring_. Heartened, she said, "I'm a foil, Mrs. Rabbit. Usually a best friend."

"I see." She wrote something else, and this time her hand curled around so Emily couldn't read it. "Romantic interests?"

"About half the time."

She nodded, making another little note. A foil character was found most in Disney movies; commonly female, the character is drawn to be pretty, but not too, with a face that tended to scowl or blush with little effort. He or she is either the main (and more attractive) lead's best friend or minor rival. Either role could result in a love interest for the other romantic lead's best friend or rival, but that depended on the attractiveness of both parties and whether or not Disney felt like tying up all its loose ends. Being a sidekick was sometimes hard, because Disney all too often used animals to do the foil's work, but Emily was able to find jobs here and there. Besides, every movie (or more often, show on the Disney Channel) needed extras, and animators for Disney were talented and expensive. If you were a Disney toon, you pretty much had it made.

That is, until the corporation started making nothing but live-action films and television shows, shoddy in quality and polluted with humans. That was when the jobs became thin on the ground, and that was why Emily was here.

"Biggest role you had?" the woman (a plaque on her desk said, "Jessica Rabbit"; in her anxiety, she had missed it up until that point) asked.

She turned red again. "_Sweet Lily_," she said with some pride. "It was the movie I was drawn for. I was also in _Mulan II. _Princess Su."

"Really? I saw it, once, but I don't remember anyone like . . . you."

Just as Emily thought her face couldn't get any hotter, it seared at that comment. "I've gained a bit of weight since then."

"Did you have someone sing for you?"

"No," she said, indignant. Sure, her only lead role was some crappy Disney sequel that no one wanted to see, but she did her own singing! "Is all this really necessary?"

"Just trying to see what kind of talent you have," Jessica said with a shrug. She put her pen down and stared at Emily, her chin in her hand and her brows furrowed. Unsure what to do, she tried returning the gaze, but felt too self-conscious and dropped her eyes to the floor. After a few tense minutes, Jessica said, "Perhaps if we put you on a strict diet. . . . You aren't drawn like this, are you?"

"Well, not exactly." It was true that Emily's animators had given her a body type that could easily gain weight; like the incessant blushing and mood swings, it was standard foil formula. As a sidekick she'd be fat and funny, and if she was a rival, what better punishment than to balloon up at the end of the story? But unlike some unfortunate characters, she could be thin if she exercised and ate properly. The problem was that she enjoyed the finer things in life — like junk food and reading — which were not conducive to having a Venus-like physique. "But I'm not fat." Just a little plump. "Is it really such a problem?"

Jessica shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose we'll find out." She stood in a single fluid motion, holding out her hand. "You have a nice voice. Come in Monday at three and we'll see what else you're capable of."

"Thank you," Emily said weakly, looking like she was going to fall over any second. Once she'd made her shaky way out the door, Jessica picked up her desk phone and dialed.

"Helllllllllllo?" the phone quacked. She smiled at the cheeriness of her husband's voice.

"Roger, darling! I think I might have found another girl. Looks like a singer. On the chubby side, though."

"Congratulations, my beautiful snowflake, my flower of perfection and —" He cut himself off before his proclamations of love could get too ridiculous. It was an impressive show of restraint, but Jessica was a little disappointed. "But isn't that a . . . _unique_ decision for you?"

She sighed, trying to blow the hair out of her face. "Most of the weight's upstairs, so it might not be a problem. And _unique_ might not be a bad idea. I don't know if the audience is getting tired of identical, perfect chorus girls, but I am. She might liven things up." Her eyes narrowed. "However, I think I'll need to add at least two more chorus girls to the act just in case. Even things out. Maybe some more blondes."

"Whatever you do will be fantastic, my wonderful . . . ah, Jessica."

A smile graced her lips. "Of course it will be, dear." She picked up her pad and began studying her notes. _Pretty eyes_, she remembered, writing it down. "Isn't it always?"


	2. The Warners

A/N: Again, Caramel Cheescake was an excellent beta who should be revered. All mistakes are my own fault.

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

Wakko Warner was having an excellent dream in which a supervillain (he didn't know who) had captured Hello Nurse and trapped her in a vat of strawberry-fudge ice cream, and the only way to save her was to eat the entire thing.

What could he say? Some people's tastes mature, some people's don't. Wakko was quite happy with his juvenility, thank you very much.

He was just lunging forward to take his first bite out of the metal wall of the vat when a barrage of knocks on his door jerked him awake. He cried out, flailing his arms in a vague flapping motion as he fell off his couch. "Note to self," he muttered, rubbing his head. "Still can't fly." A smile spread across his face. "Not yet, at least." His mind filled with images of jet packs, wings that one could move individual feathers of, hang gliders that did more than hang and glide. . . .

The pounding on the door continued. "Open the door already! It's freezing out here!"

He stumbled to his feet and stared at the locked door for a long baffled moment. Once the fuzziness had faded from his brain, he unlatched the bolt and let the wood creak back on its hinges, turning back to the couch for a blanket. Dot would close the door for him.

His little sister was clad in a man's work shirt and a pair of denim shorts. She looked cold and miserable, but she met his gaze without shame as she sat down in the chair across from him. Wakko understood; he'd turned twenty-one only a year before, and it had taken him five months to figure out how to hold his alcohol without looking like a lake monster the next morning. Dot was smarter than he was, though, and he figured it wouldn't take her nearly as long to manage her liquor.

Yakko, of course, didn't drink.

"And what did you get up to, sister sibling?" Wakko asked with a smirk. He didn't care, really. Though he'd borrowed Yakko's affectionate moniker, he hadn't taken the overwhelming protectiveness that had always smothered Dot. Unlike his older brother, he knew better than to pressure her about making smart decisions, as that would only drive her to worse ones.

Unlike Yakko, he trusted his sister.

Dot smiled back wanly. "My head feels like it's going to explode all over your living room," she said. She glanced down at herself and winced. "And I have no idea whose shirt this is."

"I take it you celebrated your psychotic freedom a little too hard?"

"_Psychoanalytic_, Wakko. And yeah, I guess so. Fifi bought me this huge margarita and told me I'd better drink it all because she'd paid for it. That's about all I remember." She looked around. "You wouldn't by any chance have Pop-Tarts laying around, wouldya?"

He laughed. "Always, Dottie."

"I'd kill you if I could get up," she mumbled, curling up into a ball on the chair. "And if I knew where the Pop-Tarts are."

"That's why I said it." He stepped into his kitchen, cringing at the massive pile of dirty dishes. This was why he never brought girls home. He pulled the box down from the cupboard, mulling that thought over and wondering why it filled him with such a peculiar mix of satisfaction and dread. Then it clicked. _"Shit!"_

He raced back into the living room, tossing the box of Pop-Tarts at Dot as he passed. Ducking into the bedroom, he saw a mound of blankets with brown hair sticking out of one end and blue-toenailed feet sticking out of the other. She moaned and rolled onto her other side without waking up. Letting his breath out in a quick _whoosh_, he slipped back to where Dot was waiting. "Forgot about Michelle."

"Michelle? Who's — oh, waitress Michelle?" The woman in question worked with Wakko at Dylan's Dine-and-Dance, a somewhat sleazy diner-slash-nightclub that served undercooked hamburgers and limp salads about twenty feet away from a dance floor, complete with a disco ball and strobe lights. The music was determined by an ancient jukebox, so high schoolers without cars to get to cooler places were stuck grinding to U2 and Kenny Chesney. Still, it was the only place that would hire a Warner as a waiter, and he was quite good at remembering everyone's orders and balancing impossible trays of food. On the occasions that the food actually made it to the table, customers reported loving his hilarity and cheer. "You finally convinced her to enter this crusty hellhole, huh?"

"It's not that bad," he said, looking around. "Just a little laundry here and there."

"Sure. If she keeps her eyes closed, she'll never notice. Oh, wait. She _can_ smell, can't she?"

He stuck his tongue out at her, letting it unravel like a slimy red carpet until it flicked the end of her nose. Instead of shrieking and writhing away, like most girls did when he pulled that trick, she snatched the end of it and tied it around a lamp, forcing him to walk over and free himself. "All right," he said once he could talk again, "so it's a little dirty. She likes me, not the apartment."

Dot had lost interest since the conversation had been so long away from her. It was an irritating habit, but one that had to be forgiven. She _was_ Dot, after all, and she couldn't help it. "So I can't believe you didn't ask how my shrink session went."

"Well, since I got a call yesterday afternoon and heard you screaming, 'I'm free! I'm free from that crazy bitch forever!' I assumed it went pretty good."

She didn't bother to correct his grammar, too intent on telling her story. She'd gotten better over the years, managing to regale him with something that was more truth than embellishment. She even got her speech about a Hebrew pregnancy down to the letter.

He smiled a bit, but he looked a little sad. Dot narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

He shrugged. "That just sounds like something Yakko would say, you know?"

"No, I don't know. I wouldn't talk like him and you know it."

"I don't know any such thing. But then again, if I knew I knew half the things I don't know I know, I could know twice as much as I think I know, and thus know all that I know." The sentence left his tongue tied in knots and his head spinning. Though he was talking more than he had as a kid, he still wasn't used to long speeches like that, let alone punny ones.

Dot seemed to feel the same way. "Look who's talking like Yakko now."

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a long night."

"You think _you_ had a long night? Who exactly can remember most of it, again? I don't think it's the one wearing a shirt that smells like back sweat. I wouldn't sleep with a guy who has a sweaty back, would I? I mean, even drunk as a skunk I'd have better taste than that."

"I don't know. I think I might have slept with a sweaty-backed guy the second night I turned legal."

"Ha ha," she said, rolling her eyes. "So maybe it was a sweaty-back. I'll bet he looked like Mel Gibson."

"I'll bet he looked like Danny DeVito."

Dot glowered at him. "I hate you, you know that?" she said. "I hope Michelle in there has a dick and you just don't remember."

"Goodnight, everybody!" Wakko exclaimed with a laugh. For a moment they both fell silent, the presence of their older brother weighing on them like a lead blanket.

"I need a job," Dot finally muttered. As she spoke the tension lifted, and he noted that she really did look awful. "I hate it, but Plotzy was only footing my bill so long as I was getting psychiatric help from that blonde harpy." She looked up at him like she'd just told him she had terminal cancer. "I guess my crazy days are over."

He crossed the room and squeezed himself onto the armchair next to her, hooking an arm around her shoulders. "Nah. You'll just have to be careful about when and how you do it. For example, our dishwasher, Barry? Stuck a lobster in his pants yesterday while he was yelling at Michelle. Got out of there so fast he didn't see me. Thought it fell off the counter."

Dot sighed. "But it's no fun when nobody sees."

"Michelle saw. And that's the best way to get laid, in case you were wondering."

"Stick a lobster down somebody's pants?"

"Exactly," he said, hugging her close and reveling in the feel of a good old-fashioned hug (girls didn't like to hug the guys they wanted to sleep with, he'd discovered. They also didn't like Gookies). He felt protective and somehow safe. Dot was always going to need him to talk to, and he was always going to be there. He felt nice and secure in this knowledge and in his own ability to be a good brother.

He realized with a shock that he felt like Yakko. He felt like him, he sounded like him more and more each day. . . . It was like he was channelling his big brother's spirit or something. It was a little scary. Okay, it was a lot scary, but what could he do?

Somebody had to be the big brother.

Yakko just hadn't realized that being zany was part of the job description.

* * *

><p>"So, Rita, how's Runt?"<p>

"That's not funny," Rita Wilkins, a large Irish woman with huge muscles and hawklike eyes, said. She was clearly lacking a sense of humor. Unless, of course, she'd never seen _Animaniacs!_.

Yakko smiled at her. "So you and him are history? How about I pick you up at eight, then?"

"Please get off my desk, Officer Warner." Her voice was deadpan, but her eyes hinted at something more ominous.

One thing he'd learned since the show ended was when to shut up. "Of course, Sergeant Wilkins. Sorry to bother you." He stepped away from her desk and over to his own, collecting his things. His jacket slung over one arm, he turned to his superior, the only person currently in the office. "I'm clocking out for tonight. Goodnight, Sarge."

She nodded, looking surprised at his good behavior. _You're not the only one, lady,_ he thought to himself as he slipped outside into the light drizzle. So far, he was not loving the classic New York atmosphere. It consisted of clouds and rain, followed by brief rays of sunshine that lasted just long enough for him to think that the weather wasn't so bad, and then were doused by more rain and clouds. When he'd made the cross-country trip, he'd expected a nice job in the city with bright lights and Broadway shows and plenty of chorus girls. What he'd gotten were old people and sulky teenagers, trapped in one of the almost-rural villages of upstate. He supposed that he should have done some research before agreeing to his realtor's suggestion of a nice little area called Scotia; he'd assumed that it was within half an hour of the Big Apple.

Ha. Try three hours, and then keep driving. Dot would have been furious with him for an error like that. Instead of getting the chance to be a stage star, she would have been stuck working in a Subway or the rinky-dink movie theater a few blocks away that only played second-run films. At least Wakko would have enjoyed the freedom of being as far away from Mr. Plotz as humanly possible.

But then again, hadn't the very fact that his siblings refused to come with him — refused, in fact, to speak to him at all — been the reason that he'd been too flustered to find out that Scotia was a village of nothing surrounded by a town of nothing in a county of huge-freaking-nothing? It was all their fault, really.

The one nice thing about being on the opposite coast was the fact that had been his only draw east: so far away from Hollywood and its influence, people didn't care whether you were a toon or not. Since there were maybe a third as many of them here as in California, most humans didn't have much of an opinion on the matter. In fact, they didn't really have an opinion on any matters, since they were all occurring so far south and west. Illegal immigration? No one cared. Various natural disasters down in Florida and New Orleans? Sure, they'd donate money to the fundraisers and charities, but it wasn't exactly a talking point. While Yakko missed getting into impassioned political arguments (not that he had a party to be affiliated with; he enjoyed taking the opposite side of whoever he was talking to, which in this teeny town meant Republican), he couldn't get over the feeling of buying his groceries and having the checkout guy ring up his purchases, hand him his change, and say, "Have a nice day, sir," without much more than a second glance.

Not that New York was some sort of Eden. He still got the odd slur or idiotic question — his personal favorite was, "How can you guys go out in the rain without melting?" — but the good people of the Empire State were content to leave well enough alone, and so these irritations were few and far between.

Of course, he wasn't an idiot. He knew that there was one huge difference between California and New York in this respect, and one main reason that he was being ignored rather than reviled. A beautiful woman walked past, her slinky, sultry movements bringing a pang of nostalgia; they were strangely reminiscent of Hello Nurse. He clapped his hand to his mouth before he could let out a whistle, and with his other he clutched a nearby lamppost, anchoring himself to the spot to avoid leaping into her arms.

People didn't bother him because he didn't bother them. He didn't act like a toon, so they didn't treat him like one. If that were to change, he thought his position on the police force would be gone before he could say Dot's full name.

So he played normal. He kept his rude, rapid-fire comments to a minimum, and he never touched anyone unless it was to shake their hand. It was hard, the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, but he'd been practicing for seven years — starting when he'd applied and got accepted to the Criminal Justice program at one of the California State Universities, at nineteen years old — and it got easier every day.

He made it home around midnight, not worrying about keeping quiet as he went about his nighttime routine, which consisted of a huge bag of popcorn, a book called _The Almost-Complete History of Toons in Media_, and a radio station that mostly played really old rock n' roll. He kept the volume up and all the lights on. Why wouldn't he?

There wasn't anyone home.


	3. The Auditions

CHAPTER THREE

"Thanks for letting me take you out," Hello Nurse said, looking around at the dilapidated cafe her friend had picked. It was across the street from ToonTown Central Square, a nice little park with two statues on either end, one of Mickey Mouse and one of Bugs Bunny. The memorials had been erected last year after the argument over which toon should be most honored had erupted into a riot._ Toons will argue about anything,_ she thought with a sigh. "Though I'll never understand why you like this place."

"It has good hangover tea," Minerva Mink replied. And if anyone needed it, she did. While she'd washed the scum off her and was wearing a pair of sweatpants instead of the clingy dress of the night before, her eyes had huge, dark bags beneath them, and even at ten in the morning, she didn't look quite awake.

"You're not hung over."

She shrugged. "Still works." She perused the menu with little interest, though she was beginning to get too thin for Hello Nurse's comfort. "So how're you doing?"

"I'm —" She was interrupted by their waiter, and awkward-looking twenty-year-old with shaggy, sandy hair and freckles covering almost every inch of his pale skin.

"Welcome to The Pastel Garden. Can I . . ." He trailed off as his eyes landed on Hello Nurse. "Hey, you're that lady from _Animaniacs!_"

"Good job, Benny," Minerva said with a sigh, calling the waiter's attention away from her friend. "I'll take the usual."

After jotting down Hello Nurse's order, he beamed down at her. "It'll be ready in ten minutes." His smile grew. "Goodbye, Hello Nurse!"

"That name will follow me until I die," Hello Nurse muttered, dropping her head into one hand; her hair poofed into the air with the motion, then settled around her in a little cloud of gold. "I wish just once the writers could have used my real name. _Once_."

Minerva smirked, because her situation wasn't any better. Sure, her name really _was_ Minerva Mink, but the way most people said it — a dirty joke spat through a leer — she often felt like it wasn't. "They call you Susan at work, don't they?"

"Only because they're all seventy-year-old women who've never seen an episode of that show in their lives," Hello Nurse (less commonly known as Susan) said. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Your name?"

"No, my job." Though Susan was two years older than her, sometimes it felt like she was much older than thirty-four. "Please tell me you can get me work at The Ink and Paint Club."

Of all the things Minerva had expected her old friend to say, that was not even close. "Why would you ever want to work with me?" she asked, a little more sharply than she'd intended.

"Are you kidding? I've seen what you get to do every night — dance, sing, act like a star again. It's what we were born to do, and I miss it."

_Honey, that's only half of what I do, and it's the half that pays chickenshit._ But she couldn't tell her that. "You don't want to work there," she said instead. "I mean, the customers are rude, the costumes are uncomfortable, the acts are garish. It's nothing compared to the peace and quiet of the library."

Susan began to look confused. "But isn't that why you took the job?" she asked, accepting her coffee and bagel from Benny, who looked like a puppy dog giddy with the idea of serving _Hello Nurse_ (she'd known him long enough to guess that he thought of her in italics). "To be in front of an audience again?"

Minerva surprised both Susan and Benny by bursting into laughter, not able to calm down until the waiter had scurried away and tears had come to her eyes. "I went there because I had no money!" she said, giggling still. "I thought everyone knew that." That was how it seemed to her, at least; all the wives of the men who came to the club whispering about how stupid, greedy Minerva Mink had pissed her money away on booze and finery until she didn't have a penny to her name, how Mr. Plotz wouldn't agree to support her like he did the Warners because no judge had declared her insane and unfit to manage her own finances, how the only place that would hire her with nothing better than a whorehouse, and wasn't that fitting? She'd been the talk of the town for a solid four months before the old hags had found some unfortunate starlet that had been arrested for drug abuse.

And the worst part was that none of that was untrue. Well, except for the "pissed it away on booze and finery" part. She'd spent it all, yes, but not on alcohol or pretty clothes as much as silly things like rent and food. The problem was that a two-episode run with maybe twenty cameos didn't pay nearly as well as everyone seemed to think, and the money disappeared faster than she ever would have imagined.

Her best friend looked stunned. "Well," she said, recovering quickly, "I thought that you just liked The Ink and Paint Club more than anyplace else."

"There's such a thing as being too pretty to be hired," she said with a self-deprecating laugh. "And being a mink. And being a toon. That doesn't add up to a whole lot of opportunities. Really, the Inky was the only place that wanted an animal that could double as a porn star."

Hello Nurse wrinkled her nose. "I'm not _naive_, you know. I understand that working there would require being . . . more scandalous than some people might be comfortable with. I know that girls who work there are . . . um . . ."

"Eye-candy?" she supplied.

"Yes! Eye-candy first and performers second. But it would be valuable experience, and I could use that. Besides, it'd be fun to work with you again, and practice all those ridiculous 'attractive' mannerisms." What Susan was delicately referring to was what Minerva called "whoring around." She had always been the more prim of the two. "Not to mention it's good money."

It wasn't as good as Susan thought, but being an act at the Inky probably did pay better than working as a computer tech at the public library. Minerva still felt like she had to protect her friend from what she was about to do, but realized that it would be no good. She couldn't tell her the truth, and nothing less would convince her to drop this. "Fine. Jessica's holding auditions for some girl on Monday, and I'll talk to her and see if she could squeeze you in, too."

"Thank you, Minky." Susan offered her the nickname and a small smile as a peace-offering; she knew that Minerva wasn't thrilled with her decision for some reason, and she wanted to assure her that everything was going to be fine.

Minerva didn't return the smile, but her face softened. "Just don't cut all ties with the library yet, okay?" she said. "You might discover you like being a techie more than you think."

* * *

><p>Emily let herself into the side entrance of The Ink and Paint Club, which was unlocked like she'd been told. However, that was all the preparation someone had made for her; the door only opened halfway because there was a box of what felt like cinderblocks in it just inside the room, which apparently had no working lights. She squeezed herself through the too-small gap (squashing one of her breasts in the process) and stumbled over only a few unknown objects before making it out into the main part of the theatrerestaurant.

Jessica was sitting on the stage, flipping through the yellow legal pad that she had written Emily's future on just last Saturday. She glanced up at her, then flicked her gaze over to the clock hanging on the back wall. "You're on time," she said. "That thing's ten minutes fast."

Emily nodded, swallowing hard and waiting for her heart to reach a pace that was somewhere close to normal. She couldn't do this. What made her think that she could be a performer at a place as famous as Jessica's bar? A couple supporting roles in tiny straight-to-video films that most Disney _employees_ hadn't even heard of, let alone fans, and she thought she was some sort of hot-shot?

She was an idiot. A slack-jawed, boob-squished idiot.

But she was here, and as long as she was, she might as well make the most of it. Tottering up to Mrs. Rabbit on what felt like tiny tree-stump legs — but really, how could she not feel like that when her potential employer's were almost a yard long? — she handed the woman a music sheet. "I thought I'd sing this," she said, forcing herself to hold her head high.

Jessica looked surprise to receive the music. "Quite professional, but I didn't hire anyone to play the piano." She handed it back, climbing down to take a seat in the audience. "So this doesn't do me any good."

Emily focused all of her energy on keeping her chin from trembling and her face from turning red (it failed, of course). "Yes, ma'am." As she made her way onto the stage, she added with a hopeful quaver in her voice that she loathed, "Actually, _I_ play the piano."

The woman's face was impassive. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, writing something down on the pad again. Emily just hoped it wasn't,_ Clearly desperate. May be homeless and/or STD-ridden. Avoid at all costs._

She wasn't STD-ridden, at least. That was something.

Without looking up from her paper, Jessica said, "Whenever you're ready." She glanced up, snapping her fingers. "Oh, and if someone comes in, don't be alarmed. There's another girl auditioning this morning."

Emily nodded, any confidence that she'd had leaking out of her at that statement. Taking a slow, shuddering breath, she launched into a quick little song-and-dance to the song "Good Morning" from _Singin' in the Rain_. It felt awkward without the piano playing, and it didn't help that as she was galumphing around the stage, the side door opened and a blonde with huge breasts and a waist that defied logic — but how else would female toons be drawn? — slipped inside and took a seat near the door. She was polite, at least; she didn't try to talk to Jessica or hand her a resume or anything like that. Still, her very presence was daunting, like God Himself saw an opportunity for perfect juxtaposition and couldn't resist.

When she finished, Jessica nodded and scribbled a bit more. "Emily Irish, this is Susan Pohl. Miss Irish, if you would take a seat down here. . . ."

She passed Susan on her way down, and was irritated to see that this all-American, Aryan beauty had been smart enough not to bring sheet music, and didn't seem to have suffered any boob-related trauma trying to get in. )Admittedly, Emily wasn't sure what the visible signs of boob-related trauma would be, but she still doubted that this woman had had any trouble.) Before she could get her thoughts under control, a stream of petty jealousy and childish rage flashed through her mind, manifesting in one bright red word between and behind her eyes: _BITCH_.

Maybe it was a little pathetic that that was the worst word she could come up with, but she was a Disney character, and nowhere near rich or famous enough to get away with drinking and swearing like a . . . well, like Lindsey Lohan or any of the other ex-famous Disney stars that clotted the gutters. The selfish part of her had been especially pleased with hearing that Megara, who had nudged a thinner, younger Emily out of the lead female role in Hercules, had been quietly admitted to the studio's rehab last spring. Crossing her legs and trying to shove all these cruel thoughts out of her mind, she hunkered down to listen to the woman's audition.

Susan Pohl stunned Emily by being . . . okay. She didn't make dogs bark, but she certainly was nothing special. In fact, Emily had sounded better. Much better. She had never been terribly confident with her voice (it was a sidekick's voice, after all, and not meant to overshadow anyone), but for the first time she was beginning to be more comfortable with her chances in getting a job.

Jessica didn't show any more or less enthusiasm to her audition, which was either a really good thing or a really bad thing. "Actually, I'd like to see you two together. Miss Irish, if you would —"

Sure. Stand them together. That would definitely make Emily look as good as humanly possible. She tried in vain to smooth her black curls but couldn't get them to do anything other than spring off in all directions. This was what happened when she didn't let her hair grow long: chaos in the form of a, dark, springy halo.

She was just positioning herself next to Susan when the front entrance to The Ink and Paint Club — which was supposed to be locked, but had been left open by the custodian's entrance during Susan Pohl's song — flew open and a thin girl with a long, ill-fitting yellow dress burst into the room. Her eyes were wide and just the tiniest bit bloodshot, and the dress sagged at the bust and hips, but the fur that covered her body was glossy and sleek, and she seemed to radiate an agitated energy that filled the room with heat.

"Some old guy out there told me you were having auditions?" she gasped, sprinting up the aisle to Jessica Rabbit and skidding to a halt at her feet. "A janitor, I think?"

Jessica sighed, and Emily suspected the custodian had his information incorrect. "These women have auditions, because they made appointments with me," she said, clipping each word for an effect that was stern and surprisingly British. "I haven't heard from you, Miss . . ."

"Warner," she replied with a hint of haughtiness that implied fame. "Dot Warner."

_Who?_ Emily glanced at Susan to see if she had any idea what that name meant, but her blonde potential-enemy was staring at Dot with a bizarre mix of exasperation and affection. She met Emily's gaze and whispered, "We worked on a show together. _Animaniacs!_. Did you ever see it?"

She shook her head. "I don't watch TV," she muttered back.

Jessica nodded, her eyes lighting up. "The Warner sister," she said with a slight smile. "I always wondered where you'd ended up." She glanced at her pad, then at the clock. "I don't normally tolerate meetings without an appointment, but I have some extra time. Please get onstage. Miss Pohl, if you'd take a seat."

Susan gave Emily a startled glance — which she returned — before clearing the area for Dot. Emily cleared her throat before asking, "Mrs. Rabbit, should I —"

"I'd like to see how you two work together." Her voice left no room for argument.

Dot had one anyway; though they'd just met, Emily had a sneaking suspicion that she always did whatever she shouldn't. "I didn't prepare a partner dance," she said pointedly.

Jessica shrugged. "I'm well aware of that. Do you both know 'Someday My Prince Will Come'?" Know it? Emily could sing it backwards if she wanted to. Every toon could. It was one of those iconic songs that was as well-ingrained in a girl's mind as "America the Beautiful" or "I Know a Song That Gets on Everybody's Nerves." When they both nodded reluctantly, she said, "Good. Sing it. First verse" — she pointed at Dot — "and second. Third together and then you're done. Got it?"

They got it, but neither of them seemed to like it. They both kept their eyes on the far wall of the stage, determined not to look at each other (Dot out of indignation, Emily out of embarrassment). As the song continued, however, they began to sneak glances back and forth, as though to ask, "How is this possible?"

Because they sounded good. Not perfect — Dot had been rather pushy and eager to hog her lines, and Emily was too shy to take her cues immediately, and so when it came time for them to switch off, there was an uncomfortable imbalance; the final note, a ridiculously high and long-held monstrosity that was the bane of all altos, was best not spoken of at all — but these surprisingly didn't stand out all that much, and the overall effect was decent, even likable. Emily was in fact beginning to think that they went very well together, and that surely Jessica must see that.

If she saw anything of the sort, she didn't mention it. Instead, she snapped her pad closed and stood. "Thank you very much, ladies," she said, favoring them with a smile that was studiously bland. "I'll see you all on Saturday morning, then?"

There was a moment of silence. "Um, excuse me?" Susan finally ventured after a quick glance at the other two.

"You're all hired. On a temporary basis, mind you, and not necessarily leading acts, but the three of you will feature in Saturday evening's performance. If the audience responds well to you and I see a place where you fit in, I will keep you on. If not, we will go our separate ways. In any case, you will all be here promptly at seven. Come in the side door again; these ladies will show you where it is, Miss Warner, since you seem to have missed its location. Until then."

Dot didn't seem embarrassed by the dig. In fact, once Mrs. Rabbit had slunk out the door and into the blinding sunlight, she leapt into the air. "I did it! I'm in!" She froze mid-leap (something that Disney toons seemed by-and-large unable to do, as freeze-gags weren't one of the animators' key priorities), her eyes landing on Emily. "And you _helped_." Before she could do anything more than offer a weak smile, Dot had lunged at her and snatched her hand. "You seriously saved my ass . . . Emily, right? And we did sound good together. Didn't you think so?" Without waiting for an answer to either question, she continued, bubbling over with energy and joy. "Maybe we'll get an act together! _But!_ You'd better remember that I'm the cute one. Got it?" Eyes narrowed, she _did_ wait for Emily's confirming nod before moving on. "So, how about a drink to celebrate?" she said with a grin.

"I-it's eleven in the morning," she said.

"Oh." Dot deflated, and then almost immediately perked up. "Well, then, breakfast. You're paying for yourself, of course — do I look like someone who's bleeding money?" As she turned, she spotted Susan, who was pulling together her things with a small smile. "You're invited," she said, her expression turning mischievous. "That is, if you can stand to be around me, _Hello Nurse_."

Though Emily didn't have the slightest idea what that had meant, Susan merely laughed. "I suppose I can tolerate it once," she replied. "After all, it is a celebration."

"Yeah! Because _we're in the show!"_ As she skipped up the aisle, Emily fell into step next to her rival-turned-coworker, who seemed saner by far. "Is she always like that?" she whispered.

Susan laughed again, apparently much more cheerful than her lofty demeanor would imply. Emily suspected that attitude was drawn into the character, and was impressed at Miss Pohl's ability to overcome it. "Yes. You'll get used to it, don't worry." She shot Emily a sideways glance. "Besides, why shouldn't we be excited? We did it, didn't we?"

Relieved that the temporary darkness of the restaurant hid her blush — and cursing her animator all the while, because why would lighting up like a Christmas tree at the slightest thing be attractive to anyone? — she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. "Yeah," she mumbled, almost too quiet for anyone to hear. "I suppose we did."

* * *

><p>AN: I have no idea what Hello Nurse's real name is. For all I know, it actually IS Hello Nurse. I can't stand the idea, however, so she's now Susan. She looked like a Susan to me, is all. Anyway, Caramel Cheescake was a great beta, as per usual.


	4. The Call From Home

CHAPTER FOUR

"Whatchoo talkin about, Wilkins?"

"That's not funny."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Another day. Yakko sighed and rifled through a stack of papers about as tall as . . . well, as tall as their good ol' water tower back in Burbank. Though they'd never lived in the thing — it was nothing more than a set piece, a brilliant idea for the backdrop of a cartoon — he missed it. Once a year they would always sneak past Ralph and spend the night in the tower to celebrate their show. It was always less fun than they'd expected; there was something dank and unpleasant about a windowless metal shell half-full of water (as Dot would say, go fig).

He wondered if they still went up there without him.

"Warner?"

He blinked, coming back to himself and the busy, confused office. His desk phone was ringing, and the sound reminded him of his sister's shrieks when she got really worked up about something (usually her cuteness). "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Please answer that goddamn phone. It's not helping this headache."

A wide, slightly lascivious grin stole across his face, and before he could stop himself he said, "Did _someone_ have a wild night?" Before she could reply — or come out of her office and throw him through a wall — he snatched up the phone and said, "Scotia Police Department, Officer Warner speaking."

"Yakko?" The voice was achingly familiar, its accent — grown stronger in time rather than faded — one he could now only hear every day by crossing an ocean and subjecting himself to various culinary tortures like blood pudding. "This is Yakko, right?"

"Why, _hello_ —" He stopped himself before saying "nurse." He'd faced two years of stony silence from his siblings, and now was not the time for age-old greetings and private jokes. "Hi, Wakko."

"Hi." Yakko had spent enough years with his little brother to know when he was nervous, and though the Liverpool-accented voice didn't stammer or waver, he could tell that Wakko was very anxious about something. That something definitely wasn't just a phone call to his big bro, either. The seconds stretched on, and Yakko wondered whether Rita was watching him not doing any work. He picked up a piece of paper and began making little scratch-marks on it, hoping that looked enough like working to get him off the hook. To the phone he said, "So . . ." And that was all he could think of. _So you finally realized that you let the past two birthdays go by without so much as a phone call. That the Justin Bieber album I sent you this Christmas was more than a stupid joke or act of revenge; it was a cry for attention that would have impressed Dot with its shamelessness — that is, if she hadn't been trying so hard not to pay attention. That _you, _not her, were my last hope for keeping our family together, because you've always been the softer one. That you, not her, are the one I'm disappointed in._

_That you, not her, are the one I miss the most._

Not that that was exactly true. He missed Dot's quasi-destructive tenacity, her cleverness when it came to causing mayhem, and the way she acted all cuddly and lovable to butter him up before delivering some really unsavory news. But Wakko was sweeter, more pensive, and above all a _guy_. There was a serious lack of friends to be had in the middle of nowhere, and despite the fact that he was coming up on twenty-six, he had a strange aversion to girls as just friends. Wakko had always been the same way, and so while Dot was off making pals with everyone in a thirty-mile radius (provided that they weren't as cute as she was), he and his brother would sit in the corner, laughing and talking and making really offensive jokes and overall ensuring that they would never have friends, ever.

And look where that had left him. He was listening to time spiral away into nothingness while his middle sibling struggled to articulate exactly why he'd chosen, after all this time, to try and resurrect a friendship that Yakko himself had almost pronounced dead.

"Dot's in jail."

The blood drained from his face, all long-winded and depressing introspection forgotten. "She . . . she's what?" he demanded, though he'd heard Wakko perfectly the first time — why else would it feel like he was going into cardiac arrest? "How?"

"She got drunk and punched a cop."

Yakko winced, pitying the poor officer that had been on the receiving end of that punch. _This_ was why he never drank. "Why don't you just bail her out? It's an offense, sure, but not too serious. It can't be that expensive."

There was another silence. He heard Wakko take a deep breath before saying, "We can't really afford it. So —"

"You want me to mail you money." He kept his voice flat, making sure that there was no quaver in it that could be mistaken for disappointment. So much for rekindling their bond.

"Actually, I want you to come home."

_"What?"_

"I thought maybe you could . . . talk some sense into her? Let her know that she can't go around punching cops." His voice dropped even lower, and Yakko couldn't quite make out his words.

"Wakko, I have no idea what the hell you're saying."

More silence. Yakko had a feeling he wouldn't like this. "Well, it's just that she hit a _cop_, right? And _you're_ a cop." He took a deep breath like there was more, but apparently he'd said all he wanted to — or all he had the courage to.

"Let me make sure I'm hearing this right. You want me to fly across the country and bail Dot out of jail so that she can get it right this time and punch _me_ in the face?" He sat back and, after making sure that Rita was fully absorbed in her headache, rested his feet on the desk. "Man, you know how to make an offer sound appealing. Have you considered becoming a salesman?"

Wakko didn't seem to appreciate the sarcasm. Fine; Yakko didn't appreciate the suggestion. "Will you come?"

He barked out a laugh, the sound making Rita cringe. "Despite its obvious allure, I'll have to think about it," he said. "I mean, there's a lot to do here, and I don't know if I can get off work." He heard a long sigh, like his brother was giving up, and was surprised at how much that hurt. He started to say more but was greeted by a long dial tone.

Sitting back in his chair, he ordered himself not to feel bad. _Wakko never uses an unnecessary word, _he told himself. _He used to hang up without saying goodbye all the time. And sure, he's getting better at talking, but old habits die hard. Don't worry about it. You are totally in the right._

"In the right," he repeated in a whisper. "Absolutely, totally in the right."

His mind — which had taken on a personality of its own, like it was making up for the fact that he had no one to talk to anymore — chuckled, a mocking sound that was far too familiar for comfort. _Very good. You can't feel bad about growing up, and you definitely can't feel bad about becoming a cop. Not that it matters, but you haven't had to arrest too many toons, have you?_

That was true, though the few he'd had to deal with up in New York were not very friendly. The first time, he'd brought in a wiry little bird, and the stupid thing had nearly clawed his eyes out. He hadn't slept at all that night. It was the first time he'd realized exactly what most toons saw him as: a traitor. It wouldn't have been so bad if there were more like him, but with such a high human percentage this far east and such a universal hatred for the profession, he was the only cartoon on the force.

"Warner."

He pulled his legs down so fast that his chair tipped back. It would have dumped him onto the floor if he hadn't stretched his arms about six inches longer so that he could snatch the edge of the desk and right himself. Some of the other officers who had trickled in over the past half hour gave him a look that was half-awe and half-amusement, but Rita Wilkins wasn't the type to be surprised. She raised her eyebrows and gave him an effective glare. Hunching his shoulders and ducking his head, he said, "Yes, Sarge?"

"That was a personal call, I assume?"

He nodded.

"Took what, twenty minutes?"

"I'll punch out the time, Rita."

She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "You haven't taken a single day of vacation in the last two years, you know that? Not even on your birthday." Yakko had no idea how to reply to that, so he just waited for her to continue. "That call sounded pretty nasty. You all right?"

He batted his eyes at her like one of the few starlets he'd convinced to go out with him used to. "Mrs. Wilkins, are you trying to flirt with me?"

"Shut up and come with me." She led him into her office, closing the door for the first time all day. Yakko managed to bite back another comment (_"Are you _sure_ this is entirely appropriate?"_) and took the seat she offered him. She sighed, as if she knew what he was thinking, and said, "So what happened?"

He widened his eyes, going for the Patented Disney Innocence look. "Whatchoo talkin about . . . ah, boss?"

"I know these are personal matters and I have no right to interfere, so I won't ask for the details. However, something is wrong with you, and if it affects your work I need to know what it is."

Torn between two things he couldn't say but was dying to — _"There are lots of things wrong with me, but the main one is fleas" _and _"I knew you cared!" — _Yakko was left with only the truth. "That was my brother."

"Wakko, right?" When she saw his shocked expression, she laughed. "We had to look into your history before hiring you. Your family has quite the criminal record, and two names showed up right next to yours in all your . . . legal transgressions." Taking another moment to enjoy his bafflement, she added, "So what about the other one?"

"Dot? _Ahhhhhh_ . . . she's not on the best terms with me. Neither of them are, but if there was an 'I hate Yakko Club,' she'd be the president and Waks — I mean Wakko — would be the guy who stands in the back and never adds his name to the sign-up sheet."

She nodded. "Nice image."

"I minored in English." Despite the professional, almost curt tone of the conversation, he couldn't hide a smile as he spoke. He'd loved those courses more than anything else his college had to offer. and sometimes he couldn't help but wonder whether he could have gotten hired as a teacher.

He thought he would have liked it.

"So he wants you to come home, and she wants you to stay the hell away."

His eyes narrowed. "You weren't listening to me, were you?"

Rita chose not to answer that question. "So what are you going to do?" she asked.

He shrugged, surprised at how easily she had pulled the truth out of him — hence her extraordinary popularity when it came to "interviews" (known in layman's terms as interrogations), he supposed. "I don't know. I was thinking about mulling that one over with a keg of Miller Lite."

"You don't drink."

His mouth dropped open; since he was too stunned to control his toon instincts, his jaw fell all the way to his knees and his tongue was jarred by the impact enough to unroll onto the floor. When he realized what had happened, he set his mouth in place hastily. "Jesus, Sarge, do you have a guy follow me around, too, or just bug my house and tap my phones?"

She held up her hands, palms out. "I'm just observant, Warner. You're getting paranoid, and that is a sign of mental disturbance. And _that" _— she scribbled something on the paper in front of her and ripped it out of its notebook — "is grounds for a temporary dismissal." When he began to object, she held her hands up again. "Just for a little while, and your job will be waiting here when you return. But for the next six months, I suggest that you take a vacation. Maybe go see some old friends or relatives." A sneaky smile spread across her face as she said, "I hear California is beautiful this time of year."

"It's beautiful every time of year," he said with a sigh, climbing to his feet. "I can't get you to change your mind?"

"Sorry, Officer, but you're deemed mentally unstable due to personal strife. I'll just get Paul to make up an official copy of this." She waved the paper at him. "In the meantime, you ought to pack up your desk, because it is a disaster."

Yakko wanted to argue — well, he always wanted to argue, but this time he thought he had a good reason — and decided it wasn't worth it. Surely Rita was breaking some rule, but in a force this small, who really cared?

Besides, maybe she was right. There was always that to consider with a keg of . . . lemonade. Or iced tea. Or something equally dull.

As he was leaving, Mrs. Wilkins called, "Oh, and Warner?"

"Yeah?" He paused with one hand on the doorknob and the other stuffed in his pocket, his head cocked to the side in a way that was distinctly canine (leaving Rita to wonder whether he really _was_ a dog).

She smirked. "Miller Lite tastes like piss."

* * *

><p>AN: And this is where drama segues into angst. I hope it's tolerable, or at least understandable. Caramel Cheescake is wonderful as a beta, and I have no idea if Miller Lite actually tastes like piss or not. You tell me.


	5. The Reconciliation

A/N: In case you hadn't noticed, I'm playing it fast-and-loose with the rules of law in California and other police-related matters. Some call this "creative liberty"; others call it "cheating." I prefer the former, but am also willing to label it "unable to find any information on Google that made sense or fit with my plot/characters." Hope it doesn't get you down.

Many thanks to beta/creative consultants Caramel Cheescake and Authoressinhiding. They are both very helpful on their own, but combined they are an unstoppable force. :)

* * *

><p>CHAPTER FIVE<p>

"Let me out, you sonofabitch!" _Clang clang clang. _"I'm well aware of my rights!" _Clang clang clang. _"This is breaking the first amendment!" _Clang clang clang. _"Innocent until proven guilty, damn it!" With each statement, Dot used the hard plastic of her shoe to hit the cell's bars in indignation.

The guard must have finally been annoyed enough to respond to her goading. With a heavy sigh, he turned to face her. "You _were_ proven guilty," he said. "There are witnesses who are willing to testify in court."

Emily's head, which had been hanging over her knees with her hair tangling in her face, snapped up at that. "Court?" she squeaked, hurrying to her friend's side at the cell door. "We're seriously talking about _court_?"

The guard — whose name was Rick Smith, according to his nameplate, and who couldn't have been older than twenty-five — turned to her panic-stricken face, and the exasperation in his expression softened. "It most likely won't come to that," he said. "Technically your friend here is eligible for a year or more in prison, but with her history of mental illness and that Mr. Plotz vouching for her . . . she'll most likely get off with a fine."

"Fine?" Dot glared at him, but Emily could see the uneasiness behind her anger. "How much we talking about, here?"

He shrugged. "Depends on the chief. Most likely a couple thousand. Assault and Battery is considered a felony under section —"

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, rolling her eyes. "You read the book, you know the law, whatever. But seriously" — she pressed her face against the bars again. "What do you guys do if we can't pay?"

_"We?"_ Emily turned to her, holding up her hands. "I didn't do anything!"

"You're here, aren't you? That makes you an accessory! Or an accomplice." She turned to Rick. "Which would that be, anyway?"

He sighed. "I really shouldn't be talking to you two. And you," he added, looking at Dot, "stop watching _NCIS_. That show sucks."

Dot clapped her hands to her heart. "What? But Gibbs is so _dreamy!_" She rolled her eyes. "I watch _CSI_, stupid." Emily thought that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to call their warden stupid, but decided it didn't matter, as Rick Smith had turned around and seemed determined to ignore them. Dot whirled on her. "See what you did?" she hissed. "If you hadn't argued, he would have told us more! Now what do you think is going to happen to me?"

Emily froze, struck silent by her new friend's extraordinary selfishness. "_I_ didn't punch a cop!" she snarled back. "I've had nothing to do with this nightmare!" She didn't mention that she was also relieved to have a roof over her head, though she worried about what would happen to her recently-discovered bench in the central park without her there to defend it.

Dot was about to reply when the phone by Rick's desk rang. He answered, said a few "Uh-huh"'s and "Yes, sir"'s, then hung up and glanced at them. "Bail for Dot Warner," he said. "The guy'll be down in a few minutes."

Her eyes lit up. "Is it Plotzie? Oh, I _knew_ he'd come through for me! Or is it Wakko?" She turned to Emily. "Isn't this great?"

She sighed, leaning against the wall. Despite her irritation, she couldn't help but give her friend a weak smile back; it was just her nature to please. "Yeah. Great." She half-expected Dot to realize what this meant, to turn to her and insist that _of_ _course_ "Plotzie" or "Wakko" (the latter she'd been told of over Monday's breakfast, but the former remained a mystery) would be willing to spring for her considerably-less-expensive bail as well, that friends didn't abandon each other, and that she'd noticed how Emily hadn't had anyone to use her one phone call on, so wouldn't she like to spend the rest of the night at her place?

It would have been polite, considering who'd gotten her into this mess. A mess that had begun at 11:30 Monday night and _still_ hadn't been cleared up at 3:00 Wednesday morning.

As footsteps echoed down the cement hallway in their direction, Dot began to bounce on the balls of her feet, all her anger forgotten. "You'll get used to it, don't worry," Susan had said. And Dot, over a stack of pancakes about six inches tall: _"Can you believe my shrink thought I was bipolar? It's like she's never seen the show before!" _She'd said that right before their disaster had begun, when someone entered the diner through the door behind Emily's chair.

_Dot glanced up over her huge pile of food and spotted someone at the diner's entrance. "_Hello_, nurse," she murmured, prodding Emily's shoulder and until she turned around. "Who do you think that is?" Emily looked the guy up and down. He didn't seem like anything special to her, but she'd never been one for bulky men in wife-beaters. Before she could say anything to that effect, Dot had leapt out of her seat and dragged him over. "This is Ryan," she said, hanging on his arm. Her eyes turned into pulsing red hearts every time he looked away._

He'd mentioned a bar he was going to visit that evening. Gave them a name and a time, hit Dot with a smoldering look. "I'll see you there," he'd said, and just like that they were set for eight o'clock at some place called The Pumphandle, with Emily reeling from whiplash and wondering what kind of people acted like this outside of teen movies. Hello Nurse had declined, and Emily had wished she'd done the same long before the cop-punching incident.

The police officer was a human, as the idea of a toon cop was all but laughable in California. With blood dripping through his fingers and down his chin, he'd watched both of them get put through a Breathalyzer test. She'd been checked three times because no one there could believe she was sober (except Dot, of course, but she was busy slurring obscenities at everything within earshot). The cop had put another clump of gauze on his nose and said, "You spendt ober tree hours wiv _her_ and didn'dt habe a sinble drink?" Of course she hadn't; she'd spent the last of her money buying breakfast that morning, and the only thing that kept her from being kicked out of the bar was the fact that Dot would routinely bat her eyes and revert to baby-talk, a move which transfixed anyone who came near. By the end of the evening, they'd been surrounded by adoring fans who had once been bartenders, waiters, and bouncers. It was almost enough to rescue Dot from a bad mood once Ryan had proved to be a loser who stood up his dates.

Emily was beginning to wonder what had happened to her life, that she was in a jail cell for a crime she'd had no part in committing, with someone she'd only known for a few hours and didn't always like.

The footsteps had grown louder, and finally a young man in khakis and a button-down white shirt passed into their view. He wasn't very tall, only hovering a few inches above Emily's five-four (though they both towered over Dot), and had the same almost-canine, almost-feline features of her cell-mate.

She turned to said cell-mate, hoping to get a hint as to who this newcomer was, and discovered that Dot's cheerful excitement had evaporated. The look on her face was nothing short of murderous as she stared down her supposed rescuer. Silence stretched, the tension crackling in the air.

The guy smiled. It was nervous, and understandably so; Emily wouldn't have wanted to be on the receiving end of that glare. "Dot," he said weakly. "Hi." He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back, clearly unsure what to say and not comfortable with the position.

She glared at him, her face filling with color — literally; red pooled in her chin and rose to where the white fur met the black like a pitcher filling with fruit punch. When her head had gotten so bright and hot that it began smoking, she unleashed the built-up fury on this unfortunate man (who'd been smart enough to duck behind Rick's desk). "Hey . . ." Rick began tentatively.

"HOW _DARE_ YOU?" The sound blew through the room like a whirlwind, making Emily — who'd been standing to the left of the onslaught, and had only been hit with a glancing blow — stagger backward until her shins hit the cell's cot. She collapsed onto it, her eyes huge as she observed the guy who must have been Dot's brother or cousin or something try to hold his ground under the force of her shriek.

"Dot!" Emily tried, her shout lost in the cacophony.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Coming in here and rescuing me like the big responsible older brother, just _dying_ to rub in my face what a failure you think I am? Well, not all of us feel the need to sell out to humans just to turn a buck!" She stopped screaming, which probably saved the desk before it could shatter from the noise, but her voice was laced with venom. "If you thought that you couldn't ruin my life all the way over in New York, you were wrong," she said. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be a toon whose brother's a _cop_? You can die happy, Yakko. Everything still sucks even if you're across the country."

Once her voice had dropped from fatal levels, Yakko had climbed out from behind the desk, flanked by Rick. He waited out her tirade until she fell silent, clutching the bars and panting. A hint of a smirk quirked at his lips as he said, "You still know how to overact, Dottie. Been taking classes in melodrama?"

For some reason, his words seemed to demoralize her. She dropped her hands from the bars, leaving fist-shaped impressions that made Rick's eyes widen in horror. "I told you I'd kill you if you called me that," she muttered, plopping onto the floor.

Yakko grinned, more confident now. "Sure, but you were gonna kill me anyway, right? What did I have to lose?" He turned to Rick. "I can take her now."

Rick opened the cell door, watching as Dot leapt out (taking care not to come within two feet of Yakko). "And what about this one?"

Yakko's eyebrows sprang up. "Which?" His eyes roved the cell, presently landing on Emily. She paused in her attempt to stand — her legs were still shaking from that outburst — long enough to attempt a smile. "Oh." He turned to Rick. "Isn't anyone coming for her? She used her phone call, right?"

"She just moved here," Dot said, surprising Emily; she hadn't thought her friend had listened to a word she'd said since they'd met (though that was probably exhaustion and her own pettiness talking). "She doesn't know anybody yet." Her chin lifted, and her gaze hit Yakko with a defiance almost as intense as her previous rage. "She's my friend."

Yakko sighed, reading what she wanted in her expression. Along with the knowledge that if he didn't comply, she would use this against him in their epic fight. He turned to Rick. "How much is it, Officer Smith?" he asked, already taking out his wallet.

* * *

><p>"Are you okay, Wakko?" Michelle's voice was warm with worry, her brown hair falling over one shoulder. Man, he liked her. Shame this wasn't a good morning.<p>

He flashed her a smile anyway. "Yeah, I'm all right. Just thinking about getting home." He glanced at the clock, fighting back a yawn. Why had he agreed to the night shift, again?

Oh, right. His reason for working the night shift hooked an arm through his. "Well, it's closing time. Can I come with you?" she asked with a mischievous grin. For a human, she didn't seem to mind slumming it with a toon, which Wakko knew made her unpopular. The knowledge only served to make her hotter to _him_, of course. It would be very easy to say yes and lock his siblings out of the apartment, but he couldn't do that with a clean conscience. Yakko and Dot would kill each other.

"Sorry. My brother's coming home tonight." He shouldered his bag and gave her a quick wave. "Stuff a lobster down Barry's pants for me."

His walk from the diner was only about ten minutes. He heard Dot's voice halfway there: "What right do you have to come down here and tell me what do?"

Yakko's replies were quieter, and Wakko didn't hear him until he was three minutes from his apartment: "When did it become a crime to help my own sister?"

"How can you just come down here unasked?"

"What makes you think I _wasn't_ asked?"

"_Stop answering my questions with questions!_"

Uh-oh. Wakko started to jog, ignoring the lights that were coming on in the surrounding buildings. One person shouted, "Have you people ever heard of shutting the hell up? Some of us have to work!"

Wakko flashed the irate tenant a quick thumbs-up that he hoped conveyed his eagerness to solve the problem. He was on the steps to his building when he heard his name. "Wait until Wakko hears what you're doing!" Dot cried.

_Uh-oh_. He broke into a sprint, bursting through the doors that led into the lobby and racing up the stairs. He wasn't fast enough, though. As he was fumbling with the lock he heard Yakko say, "I don't think he'll mind, considering he told me to come down in the first place."

With the perfect timing only a cartoon can master, Wakko shoved the door open just as Dot's ear-piercing scream of fury reached its maximum volume. For a moment all three of them froze, like someone had called time-out. _Any second, _he thought to himself, _one of them will yell "Time in!" and everything will be the way it was._

Then a girl sitting in the corner of the room caught his attention. She was flipping idly through a magazine that Michelle had left behind, taking special care not to notice the fight going on. When everything had fallen silent, she looked up, puzzled. She opened her mouth as though to say something, then clamped it shut and returned to her _People_.

"Wakko," Dot said softly, "did you really tell this asshole to come back here and bail me out of jail?" Despite her calm demeanor, he was wary; she was still spitting angry, and a wrong answer could unleash her wrath.

"I talked to Mr. Plotz," he said, "and he said that he could soften the punishment, but that he didn't want to pay for the bail. He said . . . well, he said a lot, most of it you don't wanna hear." He glanced at Yakko, whose attention had been captured by Wakko's newly-invented paddleball-shaped hammer.

"Waks, when did you make this?" he asked, reaching for it. With a flick of the wrist, he sent the ball flying into the ceiling. Where it had hit, there was a decent-sized dent. "What _is_ this?"

"It's a paddleball hammer," he explained, leaning forward with his eyes bright. "The wood is thicker, see, to support the extra weight. If you hit a nail with the ball, it'll work like a hammer. You have to be really good to —"

"Did _everyone_ here forget that we're in the middle of a fight?" Dot demanded. "Seriously, Yakko, you did your Good Samaritan thing and I'll bet you feel real smug about it. Now get out of here before I put your head through a wall."

"But Dot —" Wakko began.

She turned on him with the speed and ferocity of a rabid animal. "And _you_! Plotzie can't fork over a coupl'a bucks, so you call him?" She jerked her thumb in Yakko's general direction. "What were you thinking?"

"Hey, is a guy not allowed to visit his siblings anymore?" Yakko said, holding his arms out to either side.

"_You_ aren't! Not when you've been such a . . ."

"A what?" He stepped closer, until she had to crane her neck to see him. If that had been an intimidation tactic, it was useless against his little sister. She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

"You're a huge —"

Wakko had had enough. He put his hands on Dot's shoulders and hauled her back. "Guys, I'm really tired. It's almost five in the morning. Will you just go to sleep?" He gestured to the curly-haired girl, who hadn't looked up from her magazine yet. "And who's that?"

"That's Dot's new special friend," Yakko said sarcastically.

"Emily," she replied, shooting him a look of disdain. "_Some_ of us are capable of making friends. _Some_ of us are personable and cheerful. That's the way toons are supposed to be."

Wakko ignored his siblings as they began bickering again, walking over to where Emily was sitting and crouching down in front of her. "I'm Wakko," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh! Uh . . . Dot asked me to come over," she said, ducking her head and blushing to her ears. This was the first time in the fight that she'd come up (and of course she'd been listening to every word), and she was worried that she'd be drawn into it, perhaps even blamed for the trouble. Yakko had clearly not been happy to pay her bail, and even less so to bring her back to Wakko's apartment. She just hoped that the younger brother was a little less irritable.

He nodded, glancing over at the two Warners, who had gotten in each others' faces. "Listen, I wouldn't have come back if you hadn't been in trouble!" Yakko was saying.

"Trouble? You wouldn't know what trouble is! Trouble is what you give innocent toons every day!"

"For the love of . . ." He threw his hands in the air. "Would you _please_ not act like I'm Hitler? It's just a goddamned job! It what responsible people have!"

Wakko sighed and took her by the arms, pulling her to her feet. "You need a place to sleep?" he asked.

"No, she doesn't." Dot had turned away from her argument at her brother's words. "We're not staying here with a couple of traitors." She took Emily's hand and yanked her away from Wakko. "We'll be at Em's place."

Once they'd left the apartment, Emily finally had a chance to speak. "Dot . . . I don't have a place."

"No apartment?"

She shook her head. "I have a bench."

Dot dropped Emily's hand and said, "So what are we supposed to do now?"

"I don't know." They huddled together despite the warm breeze, watching the world begin to wake up. Everything seemed bigger and scarier when it was five-fifteen and there was nowhere to go.

After watching two young women stalk past with their hips twitching from side to side, a group of businessmen argue over something in a brown paper bag, and an old man shuffle down the street with exhaustion clinging to him like moss, Dot finally said, "So . . . where's that bench?"


	6. The Search for a New Bench

A/N: Because I am anal and asked four people to beta me and one of them replied recently, I now have THREE betas: Caramel Cheescake, Authoressinhiding, and L100Meganium. They are all outstanding.

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><p>CHAPTER SIX<p>

Unfortunately, Emily's absence for the past few nights had resulted in the loss of her bench to an old hobo with a drinking problem. Once they'd been chased away — Dot muttering all the while about how _disruptive_ drunks could be — Emily had led her to a cartoon willow tree that was unoccupied, and they clambered into its low-hanging branches to wait out the day. The upside was that it was beautiful; the sunlight slanted through the leaves in green ribbons, and the branches rustled gently whenever the wind blew. The downside was that its beauty and seclusion drew couples like insects to flame, and the activities the setting inspired weren't pleasant to witness.

The first time it happened, Dot had been asleep and missed the entire event, leaving Emily to curl up on herself and pretend she'd never been born. But around one in the afternoon, when both of them were awake and beginning to talk about breakfast, a small cat and her chimpanzee boyfriend slipped through the branches, giggling. Moments later they heard the telltale sounds of romance in full bloom. Dot's eyes widened and she whispered, "Are they . . . ?" Emily nodded. "I am not sitting around for this," she said, and moved around the trunk so that the couple could see her. "Hey, kids!" she shouted.

The toons broke apart so fast they were nothing but blurs on either side of the clearing. "What do you think you're doing?" the cat squeaked, trying to cover herself with her hands and tail. "Were you trying to watch us?"

Dot rolled her eyes. "I was trying to _sleep_! Seriously, get a hotel room. It's more private, and you're not going to get bugs and dirt all over you." At that, the cat hissed and brushed at her back and thighs.

The chimp gathered their clothes and balled them up in front of himself. "I'm calling the police," he said, his voice cracking. "People should be protected from sick freaks like you."

Emily finally found the courage to stick her head around the other side of the tree trunk, popping into view above the monkey's head. He yelped, leaping away from her. "You probably don't want to do that," she chirped, ignoring the fact that she was still blushing. "My friend here has a history of violence, and she's not afraid of cops." She let that sink in, and then added, "Put your clothes on and get out of here."

As the kids were leaving, Dot called, "By the way, your boyfriend's technique was_terrible_!" They collapsed, laughing hysterically from sleep deprivation. Once they'd calmed down, Dot said, "You know, I didn't think you were gonna say anything."

"Hmm?" Emily had been staring up at the tree's canopy. "You mean to Chimpy?"

"Yeah. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Oh, thanks. Call me a coward, why don't you? And after I had the hospitality to take you into my mansion despite the fact that you got me arrested!"

Dot cracked her back, listening for the sounds of approaching police. "Maybe tomorrow night you could try not inviting horny couples into your '_mansion_.'"

"You know that was the second time today? I had no idea this tree was so sexy." She patted its trunk thoughtfully, then shook her head. "I don't see it."

At that, the tree drew up to its full height, let out a "_Hmmph_!" of indignation, and flipped over its branches so that Dot and Emily dropped onto the ground. "Well that was rude," Dot said, sticking out her tongue at the trunk. The roots began to shift under them in retaliation, causing the grass to shudder and them to nearly fall over.

"All right! We get it, we're leaving!" Emily cried. Once the ground had settled, they scrambled out from under the willow's branches and made their way out of the park. "I guess we need a new place to sleep," she said with a sigh.

Dot shrugged. "Eh, we'll find it." She winced and rolled her left shoulder; she'd landed on it when the moving roots had tripped her. "I haven't had that much trouble standing since we did this skit on _Animaniacs!_. We had to sing this song — oh, how did it go?" She hummed a few notes tentatively. "'A quake, a quake, the house begins to shake . . .'" She cleared her throat and shrugged again, the action more embarrassed this time. "Most of it was Yakko's, so I didn't really learn the words."

Emily had wanted to ask about Dot's prodigal brother for some time. "So . . . what's the . . . you know, deal with Yakko?"

"He's an asshole," Dot said immediately. After that she fell silent, but Emily knew that she loved the sound of her own rage enough to answer her questions.

So she said, "Is he really part of the human police?"

"What other kind of police is there?" Seeing her friend's surprised expression, Dot sighed. "Right. Disney. Well, outside of that little gated community" — she gestured in a general northward direction, where Disney toons actually _could _live in a protected village if they chose, provided they could pay for it. That was where Emily had been kicked out of, in fact, once her income had become too low — "toons don't just fall into line like robots. Humans don't trust us to have our own police force out here, and even if they did, no toon would want to be on it. I mean, can you_ imagine?_"

Emily could, to an extent; in the Disney community, _all_ the policemen were toons, and everyone got along fine. But then again, to have rules made and enforced by toons was a lot different from having rules enforced by toons, but made by humans. She felt the faint disgust and horror that she supposed Baptists felt when talking about Vegas. "Why did he do it?" she asked.

"Don't ask _me_," Dot said. "Maybe because it was easier or cheaper than other courses. Maybe to spite Wakko and me." She smirked, seemingly despite herself. "Maybe just to piss off as many people as possible. He liked doing that." She shook her head as if to clear it, turning to Emily with an admiring look. "You're a lot braver today. What happened?"

"I guess you're a bad influence."

"You'll appreciate it when our act becomes the most popular one at the Inky." She was allowed a few seconds to relish that before her stomach interrupted with a deafening rumble. "Got any money for food?" she asked.

"Nope. Spent it all on breakfast yesterday."

She cocked her head to the side. "That was stupid of you."

"Yeah, I know."

"Oh, well. I have to talk to Plotzie anyway. Maybe he'll feed me breakfast or something. Just see what you can get by begging, and I'll try to steal a couple bagels for you."

* * *

><p>Yakko was not in the best mood.<p>

He was on a very nice vacation to his hometown — which just happened to be in the most beautiful state in the country — where he could do whatever he wanted, and his little brother didn't actually hate his guts. All things considered, it ought to be a very good day. He ought to be relaxing, visiting old sights in Burbank, or perhaps hanging out in Wakko's pool (which he had assembled on the apartment building's roof, much to the consternation of his landlord).

And yet here he was, scouring the streets for Dot and cursing everything from the brilliant sunlight to the happy people walking past. There was the fact that he'd been up all night trying to sort things out with Wakko. That had been long and terrible, but it was over, and somehow they'd ended up okay. Maybe it was just part of who his middle Warner was; it was nearly impossible for him to be angry, or for anyone to be angry at him. He and Dot, on the other hand. . . .

A hand on his shoulder made him jerk around. Wakko was standing behind him, stuffed carelessly into jeans that were faded and nearly worn at the seams and a gray T-shirt with holes in it. He was only wearing one sneaker. "Waks, have a little trouble this morning?" Yakko asked with a laugh.

Wakko looked down and shrugged. "It's early," he said around a yawn. And at two in the afternoon, it was. "I heard you leave and thought you'd get attacked by an angry mob."

"You think I'm _that_ annoying? Wakko, that cuts me deep."

"Either that, or someone with a short temper will recognize you," he said. "It's happened to me a couple times, because some people don't know that you're a foot shorter than me."

"Oh, my darling brother sibling, I am three inches shorter than you at the outside." In reality, it was more like five or six, but he hoped Wakko wouldn't notice that. They couldn't _all_ be six feet tall, could they?

Apparently deciding that he'd been vocal enough for one day, Wakko only replied with a belch. It didn't shatter any nearby windows, to Yakko's relief; that was always hard to explain to irate shopkeepers and policemen. After a few minutes Yakko said, "I had no idea I was infamous, though." He sighed, placing his hands over his heart and fluttering his eyelashes. "Just what I always wanted."

Wakko favored him with a smile that was a little sad. "I thought you were done with that stuff."

He paused mid-pose, letting his arms drop. "What do you mean?"

"All the jokes. The sarcasm. That stuff."

"Oh. Right. This place must be bringing it outta me." He took his brother's arm and hauled him out of the way as a flock of tourists shambled by, chattering and oblivious to the toons they'd nearly crushed. "Just because I'm responsible doesn't mean I'm devoid of humor."

"Right-o, Brain." Though impersonating their coworkers had been Yakko's specialty, Wakko managed to do a decent impression of Pinky. Returning to his normal voice, he added, "Does 'responsible' mean 'like a human'?"

And more deftly than the eldest Warner would have assumed possible, Wakko had brought the conversation back to the heart of their rift. He grimaced. "I thought we'd dealt with this. I'm just trying to keep my head above water. They're the majority, in case you hadn't noticed."

Wakko held his hands up. "I understand," he said, "but Dot doesn't. And you're trying to find her, aren't you? To explain?"

"I was thinking I'd just drop an anvil on her, but I suppose talking would have the same effect." He drew himself up to full (if unimpressive) height. "'Now, missy, if you don't straighten up and realize that I am right, I will be forced to ground you.' That'll end well. Maybe I —"

Wakko cut him off with a wave of his arm, his gaze focused at a point over Yakko's left shoulder and across the street. "Isn't that Dot's friend?"

Yakko turned. The girl with the curly black hair was sitting on the curb, her chin in her hands and her eyes on the people walking through the restaurant next to her perch. "Oh, yeah. That chick I bailed out. Emma or Katie or something."

"Emily." His eyes narrowed. "She'll know where Dot is, at least," he said, breaking into a brisk walk toward her.

"And Nancy Drew questions the first townsperson," Yakko quipped, trotting along behind Wakko. "We're like real detectives, huh?"

Wakko chose to ignore the comment. Approaching Emily, he said, "Hey."

"A regular wordsmith, that one," Yakko muttered to no one in particular. Apparently being forced back home to a sister who hated him and a brother who didn't listen to a word he said wasn't great for his mood. Besides, he was scared. It was way too easy to slip back into the quick jokes and snotty asides that had dominated his personality before he'd left; it was like everything he'd worked for was fading away just by the essence of Burbank. Being afraid only served to make him more petulant and childish, however, which made him more frightened. . . . It was a vicious cycle, one that had moved in with an alarming rapidity.

_Oh, don't wax philosophical _now_, _the last vestiges of his sanity remarked. _You're operating on a day and a half of no sleep. Of course you're acting like an immature brat. Shut up and let your brother talk. _With what remained of his self-control, Yakko did just that, watching as the timid, awkward girl warmed up to Wakko's warmth and charisma.

"She's talking to Mr. Plotz," she was saying. "I don't know how long she'll be." She gnawed on her lower lip, her eyes darting from one Warner to the other. "She's not in trouble, is she?"

_She's in a _lot_ of trouble. We have a box of dynamite with her name on it, in fact. _Yakko bit back this reply and let Wakko talk for the both of them. "No, it's just that we wanted to talk to her, see if we can . . . straighten things out." He gave her a charming smile, one that invoked reassurance and camaraderie. "You might have noticed that we didn't end last night on a high note."

She giggled, cutting it off quickly and self-consciously. "Yeah, I noticed — not that I was eavesdropping or anything!" she said, shooting Yakko a wary glance. "I just . . . I . . ."

Wakko gave him a look that said, "Throw the girl a bone already! She's terrified of you!" That was a good suggestion, considering Emily's budding relationship with Dot. "Wait, you_were_? And we took such pains to be quiet!" he cried in mock astonishment.

She began to smile, but then her expression froze as it occurred to her that he might not be kidding. Yakko refrained from rolling his eyes; he'd forgotten how gullible Disney toons were. "I'm sorry?"

He shot Wakko a desperate look, and his brother caught on. "Thanks for helping us out," he said. "Could you tell Dot we were looking for her?" She nodded, and they turned to go. "Good job," he continued under his breath. "Was that a responsible use of sarcasm? To traumatize a —"

"I'm sorry you had to pay my bail." Her voice made them stop. She was chewing on her lower lip again, but she held her chin high, kept her voice steady, and met Yakko's eyes without flinching. "I promise I'll pay you back when I have enough money. . . ." Her strength short-lived, she dropped her eyes and her voice quavered as she added, "Okay?"

He didn't even have to see Wakko in his peripheral vision to know that his expression was somewhere between stern and pleading. He sighed and patted her on the back. "Hey, don't worry about it," he said. "What's a couple hundred bucks between friends, right?"

"I . . . I don't think I'm allowed to be friends with someone Dot wants to kill," she said, hardly louder than a whisper. She peered up at him through the tangle of her curls, and he saw a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "I wouldn't appreciate having my legs ripped off just for the delight of your company."

Yakko was surprised into laughter. "Can't blame you there, n . . . _ahhhhh_, Em." In the suddenness of the moment, he'd almost let himself fall back on his old standby and called her "nurse," which would have been uncomfortable for everyone. "See you around."

He was too focused on dodging the people on the sidewalk to notice that she was watching them, her gray eyes wide and bright above pink-tinted cheeks. "See you."

* * *

><p>Minerva was awoken from a very shallow sleep by someone pounding on her door. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, the strap of her dress falling over one shoulder and sliding down her upper arm; a toon bird that had been perched on the windowsill lost its footing and fell, its eyes bugging out of its head. Mister, as a non-toon cat, was unimpressed. She loved him for being the only male in her life who didn't screech like a monkey every time she moved.<p>

"Who is it?" she called, staggering to the door and waiting with her hand on the lock.

"Dot!" a high voice chirped back. "And I've brought a friend!"

_Dot? _What was she doing here? They hadn't spoken since the show ended, partly because of the difference between their ages and mostly because Dot had never gotten over the fact that she drew so much attention. She opened the door and Dot bounded in, dragging a chubby Disney toon behind her. "Wow, this place is a dump!" Dot exclaimed, looking around. "I thought you were a lady."

"_Hey_!" the Disney girl said, scandalized. "Be polite!"

"Eh, Minky and I go way back." She flopped onto the couch that Minerva had been napping on. "So, any chance we can crash here for a while?"

Minerva stared at her, stunned. "Why would you stay here?"

Dot shrugged. "We got kicked out of the willow tree we were sleeping in, and the hobos took all the good benches. So I talked to Plotzie and he said that he won't pay for my bail if I get arrested again, and I don't get any money for the rest of the month as punishment. I know he just wants me to go back to Waks' apartment, make up with Yakko, and 'learn from his example.' Plotzie _loves_ Yakko now." She stretched, looking particularly feline. "And you're the only person I know in a three-block radius of the Inky, Minky." She beamed at her own wit. "So whatcha say?"

Arrested? Yakko? What? "I —" _don't think so. _The words died on her lips as she watched the other girl kneel down next to the entrance to the kitchen.

"I love your cat!" she gushed, holding out her hand for him to sniff. Mister, who never responded well to strangers, was rubbing his traitorous little face all over her hand and arm, purring like he hadn't been petted in decades.

She sighed. _Stupid Disney charm, _she thought. But the cat had apparently made her decision for her. "I guess you could stay for a night or two . . ." she said reluctantly.

"Great!" Dot leapt into her arms and kissed her lips with a loud _smack_. "This'll be fun! Goodnight!" With that, she raced into Minerva's bedroom and burrowed into the bed; seconds later the room was filled with snores that bounced from wall to wall.

Resigning herself to the couch, she plopped down and pulled Mister into her arms. "Oh, I'll bet," she muttered.


	7. The First Day

A/N: I'm so sorry. I meant to get these guys through their first show and move the plot along, but apparently this story had other plans. Next time, maybe.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER SEVEN<p>

Susan leaned back against the stage apron. She was the first one here, having ducked in through the back at Jessica's heels. The older woman had smiled knowingly and gone into her office, leaving her alone in the echoing room. She glanced up at the clock; even taking into account the fact that it was off by a few minutes, she was half an hour early. But how could she not be? The opportunity to be a _toon_ again (albeit a sexy one) . . . to work with her best friend . . . to slip under the anonymity of having no real name. . . .

She was acting like a little kid, but she couldn't help it. Her foot tapping wildly, she looked around the restaurant and imagined it full of people and music. They'd be staring at her in awe, clapping, maybe even laughing —

"I knew you'd be here."

She whirled around and saw Minerva, Dot, and that Emily girl standing behind her. Dot ignored her for the most part, grabbing Emily's hand and dragging her up onto the stage. "How did you know?" she asked.

Minerva laughed, hopping up onto the apron and resting her feet on the orchestra conductor's music stand. "I showed up for my first rehearsal an hour early." Her smile grew wistful and her gaze distant, as though that time had been decades ago instead of a few years. "Besides, those two have been bouncing off the walls since four in the morning. I know you have more discipline than that, but excitement is excitement."

"Wait, what were they doing in your apartment? Especially that early?"

"Oh, I forgot to mention?" She faked nonchalance. "They showed up around ten Wednesday night to ask if I could give them a place to stay. And I, being the charitable soul I am, said, 'Of course! Please stay for as long as you'd like.'"

"So Dot kind of insisted, huh?"

"While I appreciate your opinion of me," she said, sticking out her tongue, "she did."

Susan smirked. Luckily none of the Warners knew her current address. All the same . . . "I could always offer them my apartment, if you'd like."

For a second she heard a faint _cha-ching!_ before it was muffled by a toss of her friend's head. "Nah, I can handle them," she replied. A gleam stole back into her eyes. "Although I might take you up on that if things change."

"Thanks, Minky." She had always been aware of Minerva's selfishness; it had been played up for laughs several times on _Animaniacs!_, and it was a rare toon whose personality onscreen was not even close to what they were really like. But hidden beneath the desire for pretty things and pretty guys was a practical, mostly good person, and Susan could forgive her these slights. Besides, if Dot had shown up on _her_ doorstep uninvited . . . "So how are they?"

"Dot's pretty much what you'd expect." By that, Susan assumed that she'd eaten all available food, stolen all the most comfortable spots to sleep and sit, and complained about everything from the location to the lighting. It was her standard treatment on the show if she needed to bum with anyone for any reason. (Once, Susan had been stuck with her while the Warners' apartment was being fumigated. Luckily Yakko and Wakko had been elsewhere, but the experience was one she'd be loath to repeat.) "The other one's nice, though. Like she's making up for Dot. Mostly wanders around and cleans, or plays with the cat." They both turned to the stage, where the two were gamboling around in a hilarious — to them, at least — and lewd rendition of "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts."

Presently they were interrupted by the arrival of about forty other women, who piled into the room in a Marx-Brothers-esque mob as the clock struck seven. Most of them were built in the "Hello Nurse" style that had made Warner Bros. so much money. To her surprise, though, Minerva and Dot weren't the only animal-shaped performers in attendance. _People's tastes are bizarre_, she thought to herself. Not that her friend wasn't lovely, but still . . . there was a fox in the back of the room who was licking herself.

Bizarre.

Emily had hurried off the stage and was hovering close to Susan. "Holy cow," she whispered, biting her bottom lip as the beautiful women strutted past, chattering gaily as they found seats around the restaurant. A few gave curious glances toward the two of them, and more looked Dot over as she stood tall on the stage and eyed them back, but this wasn't what had unnerved Emily so. "Where are the other Disney toons?"

Susan only shrugged. She hadn't seen any. In truth, it was rare to see anyone from Disney, since toons were so difficult to draw correctly. Add to that the fact that the corporation kept such a tight leash on their creations, and there were very few of them wandering around at all. In fact, Susan hadn't seen anyone like Emily in over five years (mutts didn't count, obviously. They lacked that certain Disney sparkle that enchanted and irritated in equal measure).

Dot leapt down from the stage at last, beaming. "None of them are as cute as me!" she crowed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Not a single one!"

"Congratulations," Emily replied, rolling her eyes. "We're all thrilled for you."

"As you should be," she said smugly. When she noticed that her companions weren't nearly as cheerful as she was, she added, "What's your problem?"

"What do you mean?" Susan asked, watching apprehensively as one of the chorus girls passed, her close-cropped blue hair a startling contrast to her more traditional pinup build.

"I mean you'll fit right in among the triple D's over there, Minky's already in, and my dear friend here" — she hooked an arm around Emily's neck, despite being, at five-foot-nothing, four inches shorter and thus forced to stand on tiptoe — "is the only real Disney girl in miles, and she can do that . . . that Disney thing. And then there's my overwhelming cuteness, so we'll own this place."

Jessica emerged from her office then, tapping her ever-present clipboard with her pen to get the girls' attention. "Ladies, please," she called, her voice low and husky. "If we could."

Everyone dropped silent then, huddling around their boss with a devotion that was almost religious. Jessica pulled herself onto the stage and surveyed them all. Once she was satisfied that everyone was there, she tucked her pen into her impossible cleavage and continued. "We have three new prospects," she said, pointing to them with a long-nailed finger. "Please be courteous and make them feel welcome." All eyes flew to where they stood. Dot was eating up the attention, and even Susan didn't seem to mind, but Emily was mortified. She didn't have time too feel too bad for herself, though, because Jessica had moved on. "As you'd expect, I will be spending the majority of my time on these acts, but first I'd like to speak with Miss Berry, Miss Munoz, and Miss Sunshine. If the rest of you would run through your songs . . ." She waved them away, and the women scattered.

Minerva grabbed Susan's arm. "Come on, or we'll lose the best spot." She began leading her up a set of stairs that were just behind the stage. At the top of the staircase was a platform almost as big as the stage itself that was littered with various set pieces. "It's where the crew stores their props," she whispered. "Best place to rehearse if the stage is being used."

Dot and Emily had followed, and while Dot leapt on the sofas and tables that were strewn about, Emily had been drawn to the railing on the far end of the platform. She leaned over it and could see the entire restaurant, partially hidden by the fabric strung across the top of the curtain. She wondered what it was called, and why the stage protruded so far into the available seats. She'd been on so many film and television sets, but never an actual theater. Snatches of Shakespeare floated through her head, mystical and timeless.

What had she been missing?

"It's called a thrust stage," Minerva said, joining her at the railing. "That's why it goes so far into the audience." She smiled when Emily only stared. "I was curious, too. It's really something."

Before she could agree, another question occurred to her. "Why does Mrs. Rabbit want to talk to those girls?" she asked. If she tilted her head to the side, she could spot where the four women were huddled together.

"Probably changing their routines. Making them newer so the audience doesn't get bored." She sighed, tossing her head so that her hair fell over one eye, and Emily marveled at a toon that was drawn so that her every movement was sexy. How easy life must be for her. "I've always hoped she'd update mine, but apparently the people like knowing what they're going to get. That's why we don't really rehearse unless the routine's changed or someone's new — like you guys."

"Hey, Minky! Aren't you going to help us?" Dot's voice echoed, trapped in the folds of fabric that made up the curtains and bouncing around like a bat that had gotten stuck up there.

Minerva groaned. "That nickname is reserved for Susie," she said, giving Emily a meaningful look. "I can't stand it otherwise. But whatever. Let's get back."

Dot had assembled a crude set out of what was available and was lolling around on one of the couches. "So what's the secret to fame and fortune here at the Inky?" she asked.

"I don't know. It depends what niche you're expected to fill." She sat back, surveying them. "I don't _dare_ to presume that I know the inner workings of Jessica's mind, but if I had to guess . . ." Her tongue darted out and rested on her upper lip as she concentrated, and Emily was filled with another shot of wonder mixed with jealousy at such effortless beauty. "Susie's easy — you'll be a chorus girl, the all-American kinda deal. Dot, you could either focus on being . . . well, furry, and get the weird fetishists, like _moi" —_ she struck a sarcastic pose — "or stick with being cute and get all the innocence perverts." She paused for a second, her eyes landing on Emily. "_You_ will be interesting. I don't know what she's going to do with you."

"Disney toons are supposed to be innocent too, right?" Dot asked. "We could be cute together!"

Minerva shrugged, turning her attention to the people below. "Maybe. But I think you're wanted, so you might wanna get down there."

"What? But we haven't practiced anything!" Dot protested; Emily took her by the arm and pulled her down the stairs as she was arguing.

"There you are," Mrs. Rabbit said, the expression on her face somehow conveying warmth and insincerity at the same time, like she knew exactly what her expression was supposed to be. "These young women" — she gestured to the three people she'd called over about ten minutes ago — "will help prepare you for tonight. Or whenever you're ready," she added, but the look she gave the mentors suggested a different sentiment. "I'll leave you to it, then." She disappeared back into her office again.

Dot, Emily, and Susan turned to the women that Jessica had been talking about. One of them, a short, ringleted blonde with tiny breasts stepped forward, her smile wide and bright. "I'm Suzanne Sunshine," she chirped. "Which one of you is Emily Irish?"

"No way," Dot whispered. "Her name is _Suzy Sunshine? _Good luck." She clapped Emily on the shoulder and nudged her forward. "That's your lucky student," she said to Suzanne, widening her eyes and giving the woman her special "cute" look.

Suzy either didn't catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Well, great! Let's get going, shall we?" She led Emily away as the other girls went off with their mentors. "So you must be nervous, huh?"

"Yeah, a little."

"Good. Play that up." Her tone was curt as she opened the door to the basement. When she turned back and saw Emily's look of confusion, she laughed and slapped her forehead. Her entire body squealed (girlishly, of course), _"Golly gosh! Look what I did!"_ "Oh, I forgot how new you are! Sorry. I just meant that it's okay to be nervous. Sometimes the audience likes it when you're accessible." She reached out and tapped Emily on the nose with a wink. "And _you_ have to be innocent and adorable. The boss insists."

"Why?"

She shrugged, the "golly gosh" expression melting from her face. "Must be the Disney thing." She slipped through the narrow doorway and disappeared into the gloom. "Come on! We only get half an hour before she wants you three back on stage."

Emily hesitated. Man, it was black down there. Nights in the park had been fine, because they were under the open stars and streetlights, but that was a closed kind of dark. You never knew what could be hiding in that kind of dark. "Um . . . are there any lights?"

For a moment Suzy didn't answer, and Emily felt her heart tighten in her chest. She was just about to run back into the auditorium when she heard, "Man, you're the real deal, aren't you? Hold on." There was some fumbling, and the lights flickered on. Suzy was standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. "Let's start, then." As Emily made her way downstairs (testing each step in case they were only built for super-thin models with weightless breast implants), Suzy added, "Afraid of the dark, afraid of making people mad. . . . You're a Disney through and through. Gives me something to work with, at least. You know how to do that . . . that foil shy awkward thing?"

"Well . . . I-I don't know."

"Perfect! Do it again."

* * *

><p>"You know what I hate? What I absolutely <em>hate<em>?"

This was a hard game. Wakko balanced his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he slapped two peanut-butter-dripping slices of bread together. "Yakko. Geometry. People who don't look like Mel Gibson. People who _do _look like Mel Gibson, because they might be cuter than you. Republicans?"

"You call that _food_?" Yakko asked, watching from his vantage point on the counter as Wakko slathered the peanut-butter sandwich with honey and topped it off with sprinkles and a pickle.

At the same time he could hear Dot rolling her eyes from the other end of the phone. Literally; they sounded like marbles in a pinball machine. "Could you let me get a word in edgewise? I call you for moral support and I get stupid jokes our stupid brother would make?"

Wakko sighed. Sometimes he wished he was an only child. "What, then?" he asked the phone, adding to Yakko, "Hey, you want to make fun of me? She just called you stupid." In defiance of both of them, he took a huge bite out of his peanut-butter-and-sprinkles pickle sandwich.

"Ew!" Dot moaned. "It sounds like you're eating one of your disgusting sandwiches." As she was talking, Yakko made retching noises. It was cute how alike they were. Not to mention incredibly annoying. "Anyway, what I hate is that Little Miss _España_ here is acting like she's the boss of me! Like I haven't been the queen of cute since . . . like, ever!"

"Isn't she supposed to be teaching you how to act?" Wakko didn't know much about the Ink and Paint Club besides what was common knowledge: it was a place for singing and dancing and getting hilariously drunk. Honestly, he didn't care how she made money, or even if she made money. As long as she and Yakko didn't tear each other limb from limb, he'd be satisfied.

Which was why he hadn't told his older brother what Dot's new job was. He had a feeling that Yakko wouldn't appreciate it, whatever it was.

Not like Dot appreciated it. "Act? I don't need to learn how to act! I've been acting since before this —" There was static as she clapped her hand over the mouthpiece and screamed, "I'LL GET TO WORK WHEN YOU LEARN HOW TO TEACH!" She returned a second later. "Since before she was born."

"I doubt that," Yakko said, leaning over Wakko's shoulder to hear better. He was smart enough to keep his replies out of his sister's hearing, though.

"Huh." Wakko leaned back against the sink, feeling the puddle of water that always inexplicably formed at its lip soaking through the back of his shirt. "Well, good luck with that."

"Yeah. I'll be sure to tell you — HEY, I'M TALKING HERE! — how it goes. As long as _he_ isn't there."

"So you've forgiven me?" He smiled. "I always knew I was the favorite." Yakko scowled and punched him lightly on the back of the head.

"Don't assume that. You're just the only brother I can stand right now." Still, she sounded more amused than annoyed. "So make sure he's out of there by midnight and — YOU CALL THAT A SHIMMY? I'LL SHOW YOU A SHIMMY! GET OVER HERE!" There was another crackle of static, then silence.

Wakko turned to his brother apologetically. "Listen, I know it's not fair —"

"Fair?" Yakko shrugged, trying to make light of the matter and failing. "Hell, I'd probably kill her just as bad as she'd kill me. And you guys should talk." He smiled a bit and added, "Besides, I've missed the Maul."

* * *

><p>AN: The ending is a little lackluster, but the next chapter involves the Maul! And maybe romance! (Or not. I don't really know yet.) Many thanks to Caramel Cheescake, Authoressinhiding, and L100Meganium. They're the best, as usual.


	8. The Show and the Date

A/N: Thanks, as usual, to betas Caramel Cheescake, L100Meganium, and Authoressinhiding.

If you haven't seen this episode of A!, you really should before reading this chapter, otherwise it won't make a lot of sense. Here's the only link I could find: http:/ media. photobucket. com/ video/ animaniacs/ selfloathing30/ Animaniacs-SurveyLadies. mp4?o=2 Just get rid of the 8 spaces in-between the sections!

* * *

><p>CHAPTER EIGHT<p>

Ah, the Burbank Maul. With a name too quippy and vague to be believed, the Maul was one of those places that tries desperately to be a tourist trap by being quirky and iconic. Of course, a mall with a bunch of cleverly-named stores was still a mall, and could never hope to compete with the beaches and Hollywood and Disney and everything else that is stereotypically California. As such, the building was populated solely by toons and no more than twenty or so wide-eyed humans with cameras, wondering which of the charming locals were famous (none of them).

As a loyal fan of puns and, from the years fifteen to eighteen, a despiser of humans, Yakko had adored the Maul. He'd spent what amounted to maybe half his life prowling around this collection of novelty shops that sold items that made Walmart look like high quality. Before having any idea where he'd end up, he found himself outside O Holy Nighties, a store that specialized in religion-themed sex toys and lingerie. Yakko had fought hard for it to appear on an episode of _Animaniacs!_, but had been fervently vetoed. _Their loss, _he thought with a smirk, watching as two skinny guys with dyed black hair and white faces snickered at the Shiva-, Jesus-, and Buddha-shaped vibrators. _The Simpsons would have done it_.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you have time to answer just a few questions?"

_"WOULDJA LIKE TO TAKE A SERR-VAY?" _Yakko cringed at the memory. That episode had been one of the many that had been based on a true story, and a scarring one at that. Though it had just been one woman instead of two, they hadn't exaggerated her dogged persistence too much, and the voice had been spot-on. Still, this woman was probably a year or two younger than him, and had thick blonde hair waving gently over bare shoulders; she was about as different from the other survey lady as one could get. He smiled at her and said, "Of course."

"Thank you, sir. Let's start with a little general info, to get your demographic. . . ." She glanced at her clipboard. "I don't need to know your name" — was nothing a surer sign of one's has-been status than not being recognized in a _toon_ mall? — "but if I could have your age, or an approximation?"

"Twenty-five."

"Occupation?"

_Very recently unemployed. _"Law enforcement."

She gave him a sharp look, one that he was quite familiar with, and he knew that a date was out of the question. She had some professionalism, though, and went on. "Political party?"

_Whichever pisses the most people off. _"_Aaaahh_ . . . Independent?"

She made a mark. "If you wouldn't mind stating your religious background?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I mind."

She nodded. "Now, how do you feel about George Wendt?"

He couldn't believe it. "_What?_"

She jerked back, startled at the volume of his response. Once she'd recovered, she said, "Yes. George Wendt. He's producing a movie about his search for his inner self and the struggles of the upper class. It will deal with a lot of controversial issues such as politics and religion, and we're looking for which demographics would be most interested. So —"

"Listen, nurse, I'll have to stop you right there." His mind froze for a split second as he realized what he'd said. He pushed past it, adding, "I don't care how good this movie is. I don't care if it wins a million Oscars — which it probably will, if you aim to upset as many people as it sounds like. I will never see it. Ever. Call it trauma, call it what you will, I'm not going to watch it. Nor will I eat beans." Without another word, he turned away from her and focused his attention on one of the thongs with Muhammad's face on them.

There was a moment of silence. "Why?" she said softly.

He didn't have to ask what she meant. But he'd never gotten into the habit of letting people off easy. "Why what?" he asked pleasantly, not taking his eyes off the thongs. "Why I don't like the talented Mr. Wendt?"

"Why did you choose to become a . . . well, one of those —"

He turned to her, raising one eyebrow. "Don't you have people to survey?"

She flinched away from him, her eyes darting to her sandals. "Yes, sir. Have a nice day."

Once she was gone, he turned away from the sex store and headed back towards the entrance. He was suddenly not the mood for the mall. _Did I really call her nurse? _he thought, shaking his head at himself with a mixture of amusement and consternation. _Man, I'm slipping._

What was it about Burbank? It had been insanely difficult to train himself to quit all those habits of his teens, and within a few days he'd lost what had amounted to over a year of progress. It had to be the constant presence of toons: stretching, squishing, getting cut in half and pushing themselves back together. . . . Even though Wakko's apartment was on the human side of the city, there were still toons milling about everywhere he looked. And they were so proud to be loony; not one of them seemed embarrassed by their abilities or appearance, and none of them tried to hide these qualities.

He just didn't get it.

Yakko could remember being young(er) and content with his lot; in fact, he was always downright gleeful to outdo other toons in wackiness. It had been the Warners' special brand of notoriety, and most toons had learned better than to challenge any of them to an anvil-dropping contest or race around the world. Back then, he'd felt sorry for Disney toons and the like for lacking his set of skills. It would be years before he realized that their normality was what made them so popular both on-set and off, and that those humans he'd always had a vague contempt for were the real power in the world.

Back then, he'd thought sticking dynamite in someone's pants was all that one needed to get ahead. And back then, he would have laughed hysterically at that euphemism. (He still thought it was pretty funny.)

He hadn't been wandering in any particular direction, but before he knew it he'd traced the familiar steps to the movie theater. It was the most popular place in the mall despite its lackluster name ("Reel Deals"? There was nothing more pathetic than that) because the other stores were so specialized that there was no practical value to them. Trips to the Maul invariably resulted in wandering around at a few of the shops, smiling at what was there, and then making a beeline for the theater.

Knowing this, Yakko had spent most of his teenage life there. He was walking up to the ticket window before he knew what he was doing. It seemed possible — if unlikely — that the gawky teenager who had always winked at him when he bought movie tickets was the gawky twenty-year-old who was squinting at him in confusion. "Hey, are you —" he began.

"Two tickets to . . . _ahhhh_ . . ." He leaned back and looked up at the movie listings. _Where the Wild Things Are, Eagle Eye _— October 2008 wasn't a very good month for film, apparently — and . . . _How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. _How _apropos._

It wasn't until he'd bought the tickets and walked away that it occurred to him to wonder what he was doing. The last two years he'd been living like a monk, and now he was fishing for cheap dates like a kid? How could he undo all his progress in just a few days?

_Just for old times' sake, _he reassured himself. _Kill a few hours, meet some nice people. I'll be good._

That had never worked with Plotz or Scratchansniff, so assuming that he could fool his own mind with the same trick was ludicrous. So it was with a vague uneasiness that he took his long-abandoned post by the entrance of the theater, letting his gaze rove over the crowd.

The funny thing about the Maul was that everyone was eventually drawn to Reel Deals, but depending on one's mood, it could take between ten minutes and three hours to turn away from the stores. As a consequence, groups of people (girls, most often) usually broke up within an hour of arriving; some wanted to peruse Freudian Slips for something psychologically traumatizing to seduce their boyfriends in, some wanted to visit Read My Lips for one of the hundreds of books printed on hole-punched stacks of red foam mouths, and others didn't want to buy anything at all. Yakko had learned quickly that these groups would scatter and reassemble around the theater, and as such there would almost always be a girl or two wandering around with shoes unfit for walking and a lot of time to waste. They made easy prey (which, due to Yakko's impossible looniness, was the only type of prey he could get).

He glanced down at himself. In a pair of nice tan slacks, a white collared shirt, and a hot-pink sweater that had looked red in the store, he was a far cry from the wannabe-bad-boy of his teenage years. Back then, when he'd prowled the theater on a semi-weekly basis, he'd usually wear an old T-shirt, faded jeans, and Doc Martens that were held together by duct tape. Running a hand through his fur, Yakko couldn't help but shudder at the memory of it being slicked back in a failed attempt to look like James Dean.

The good news was that he no longer looked like an idiot. The bad news was that he now looked like a dork. _And a bit of a pedophile, _he thought, watching all the girls stroll by and searching in vain for one older than twenty. _How can everyone here be so young?_

A-ha! A brunette drawn from whatever perfect mold had created Hello Nurse, with pursed red lips and a tight leather dress, leaning on the railing only a few feet away from him. Instinctively he clutched the bar in front of him to keep from leaping into her arms and asking whether she'd like to sit in a dark room for two hours and not talk. (That had been his personal favorite pickup line, which might explain his rather low success rate.)

The brunette sighed loudly, turning to meet his gaze. "What do _you_ want?" she asked, drawing herself back like he was about to bite her.

"Lots of things. World peace, one of those giant salty pretzels from Auntie Anne's, to meet Amelia Earhart, to _kiss_ Amelia Earhart . . ." He winked at her. "But if you're offering, I'm not picky."

She didn't even crack a smile. "I'm seventeen."

He held up his hands. "Then I _will_ be picky. See you around, kid." He moved a respectable distance away. They were really filling out the minors, weren't they? It was surprisingly creepy, not to mention annoying.

"Excuse me? Would you mind taking a few minutes to fill out this survey?"

Yakko sighed. Had the woman followed him all the way here? He glanced over his shoulder and saw the survey lady, her clipboard held against her chest and her pen tucked behind her ear, addressing some kid. He was about to turn his attention back to the crowd when he recognized her face.

"Oh! I . . . well, sure, okay." Tugging on one springy tendril of black hair, Dot's friend stared the survey lady down like the latter had a gun pointed at her.

"We don't need to know your name, but if you could state your age? We need an accurate demographic."

"Twenty-eight."

Yakko had been about to turn away from the conversation before he'd heard that. There was no way that that tiny, baby-faced girl was older than Dot. Hell, there was no way she was older than _him_! It was impressive that she was so boldly willing to lie to the survey lady, but how would anyone believe it?

The woman gave Emily a strange look but didn't say anything. "And your occupation?"

She turned bright pink from chest to scalp. "A . . . an actress? I think. Maybe. Can I skip that question?"

"Uh . . . huh." She looked like she was beginning to regret the conversation. "Political party?"

Emily paused, nonplussed. "I don't know. I've never thought about it."

"Never? What about when you had to register? When you turned eighteen?"

"Oh. That." She tapped her lower lip with her index finger, pondering. After a few moments she brightened. "Ariel told me not to worry about it."

"Ariel?"

"My lawyer. Disney's toon partner, I guess." When the survey lady didn't do anything but stare at her, she smiled indulgently and added, "Come on, you must have seen _The Little Mermaid_."

She shook her head briskly. "Well. Okay. Your religious affiliation, if you would?"

". . . I've never thought about that, either."

He decided that it was time to spare the poor woman. He stepped forward and took Emily by the elbow. "Hi. Come with me."

She went from pink to a red so deep it was almost purple and allowed herself to be led. Behind him, the lady ripped the sheet off her clipboard and muttered, "Invalid survey."

As they left the irate woman behind, Yakko said, "So why did you lie to the poor girl? She was just trying to make a few bucks."

"What do you mean?" She gave him that wide-eyed princess look that Dot had tried to emulate and never could (much to her frustration).

"Twenty-eight? Ariel? What was all that?"

"The truth!" She crossed her arms and glared at him. "It's not _my_ fault I'm drawn to look young."

Ah, there was that classic Disney brattiness he'd heard about. "So what're you doing here?" He glanced at the bags she was weighed down with and considered taking them, but decided against it. If she really started to struggle . . .

"We finished about half an hour ago, and Dot dropped me off here while she went . . ." She shrugged. "I don't know, I wasn't really listening. I was thinking about the show."

"Oh, really? That was tonight?" Like he hadn't known. Like he hadn't spent the entire evening pacing around Wakko's apartment, watching his brother stuff Cheetos into his wire-thin body and refuse to tell him where Dot was performing_. _"You'd just make a scene," he'd said. "And if she saw you there, she'd kill you." _He_ wouldn't go because Yakko would follow him, and he'd already arranged to see the next performance later in the week, once he could get away from his overprotective older brother. Yakko had heard him making plans with Dot, the traitor. But he'd deal with that later. Turning his attention back to his sudden companion, he said, "So how'd it go?"

"It went so well!" she burbled, then looked abashed. All the color that had slowly faded from her face over the course of their conversation came rushing back into her cheeks, neck, ears, forehead. "I mean, it was okay. You know. Whatever."

He smiled. She reminded him of himself the first day working in Scotia; despite everything that had happened to make that move absolutely miserable, there was nothing like the thrill of a new job. He leaned back against the wall and felt something crinkle in his hand. He glanced down at the tickets he'd forgotten about until that moment.

Emily was staring at the movie posters, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was dressed in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants, but there was a hint of gold eyeshadow that she hadn't washed off completely and a little glitter in her hair.

She definitely wasn't his type. But she was legal, and it didn't look like he had any other options. He held out one of the tickets. "Hey, you feel like a movie? I have an extra ticket. . . ."

* * *

><p><em>The Ink and Paint Club: 11:00 p.m.<em>

"Ladies and . . . _gentlemen_" — There was a knowing sneer in the emcee's voice that made all the men in the room guffaw and cheer — "we are delighted to introduce a new act here tonight! A pair of lovely little angels performing a classic Disney tune, 'So This is Love.' Lovely little angels," he repeated, then shot the audience a wink. "At least, they _look_ like angels." Swept away by the approving roar of the crowd, he slipped behind the closed curtain.

Jessica crooked one red-nailed finger at a passing waitress. "Tell Mr. Bradley that he went overboard," she told her, writing a few notes on her clipboard. "He would do well to remember that this is a reputable establishment, and if he is looking for a bordello, he should seek employment elsewhere."

The waitress cocked her head to the side. "A wha?" she asked, snapping her gum.

Jessica rolled her eyes. "A whorehouse!" she snapped. The girl gave her a strange look and disappeared into the crowd. "The people I hire . . ." she muttered, scratching something else onto her paper. Then she allowed herself to sit back and watch.

Emily sat demurely on a swing that had been used in at least a thousand performances over the course of Jessica's career at the club. She looked pretty good, thanks to an incredible makeup job done by Miss Sunshine (Jessica would have to offer her a raise for that) and an extremely tight corset. When she started singing, her voice came out higher and breathier than it had in her audition; she scrawled, _If Irish doesn't faint, keep corset. Voice works._ Her white dress was all ruffles and poofs and flounces so that she could hardly move, which was okay because she didn't have to. It was almost parody — in fact, she knew most of the audience would take it as such, and thus assume that Miss Irish was a remarkable comedienne rather than a bit of an idiot.

She was counting on that.

When Dot slinked in, dressed in a red outfit that _almost_ called to mind Jessica's own old costume, she wrote, _Not so overtly sexy._ She too was trapped in a corset, to make it look like she had breasts. That was fine. Breasts were essential to the act, to all acts. But the slit up to mid-thigh was too much! She was supposed to look innocent like Emily until she started singing — that was the _joke! _She scribbled down a note to change the outfit entirely, and to give Miss Munoz a stern talking-to about the character she was supposed to help Dot craft. Mischievous, yes. An utter tramp? Absolutely not. The girl looked _underage_, for crying out loud!

At least the audience was laughing. They didn't realize that the joke was ruined by an improper mentor and her own carelessness. How had she not double-checked their act? Had she not been doing this for almost a decade? As Dot purred her half of the song, giving comic lasciviousness to Emily's wide-eyed innocence, a young waiter with a shiny bald head stooped and set a few bills on the table. "These for the mink, Mrs. Rabbit," he said, producing another handful. "And these for the cheerleader from the same song."

Susan Pohl. She should have known. Jessica placed her hand over his before he could set the second pile of money down. "Mr. Bole, please tell anyone who asks that the cheerleader is not available for a few weeks. Neither are those two," she added, jerking her chin up at the stage. He nodded and pocketed the bills. "And make sure all that reaches the customers safe and sound," she ordered. "I run a reputable establishment, and I will not have my patrons robbed."

Up on stage, Dot crooned, "I'm all aglow, _Mmmmmm_," and pushed a baffled Emily off the swing to take her spot. The audience went crazy, and she watched as the waiter was waylaid by a middle-aged man with a crumpled wad of bills and his eyes on the stage. When the waiter shook his head soothingly and sidestepped the shocked customer without accepting a penny, Jessica called, "Mr. Bole?"

He was at her side in an instant. "Yes, Mrs. Rabbit?"

"Keep track of who asks for whom, and for what. Especially with those three."

"I always do, Mrs. Rabbit." When her eyes narrowed, he added, "But I shall take extra care, I promise."

"Good. Carry on." She turned to a new sheet of paper, creating a table upon which three names were written. Under _Susan Pohl_ she drew one short tally, taking pains to make sure she didn't miss a second of the performance onstage.

She ran a reputable establishment, after all, and she couldn't overlook a single detail.

* * *

><p>AN: Part of this chapter was inspired by a lovely drawing by Rockleetist on deviantart. The link is here if you want to see it (it's quite good, in my opinion): http:/ rockleetist. deviantart. com/ art/ Yakko-Extra-Ticket-185052025 Just get rid of the 5 spaces in-between sections to see an awesome picture.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	9. The Truth

A/N: This chapter doesn't thrill me, because it gets really dark and really . . . I don't want to say melodramatic, but I'm worried that's what it is. Please let me know what you guys think, because while I knew this was going to have to be a major plot point, I'd expected it to be easier to write. Also, it's a long one.

In any case, Caramel Cheescake, L100Meganium, and Authoressinhiding are wonderful betas who've helped me out a lot, especially with this chapter.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER NINE<p>

"I still can't believe that Jessica was mad about tonight's performance! But at least she isn't mad at _me_." Dot hauled herself out of Wakko's chair and stumbled to the kitchen. "I knew my so-called 'mentor' couldn't teach."

Wakko glanced at his watch. It was two in the morning, and he'd agreed to work the morning shift . . . which started at five. There was no point in going to bed at this point, so with a sigh he followed his sister's trail of glitter (she refused to take off any of her makeup, which meant that the sparkles she'd scattered through her fur were _everywhere_).

She was staring into his refrigerator, her expression comically blank. "Where's all your food?" she asked.

"Yakko was really bothering me," he said, reaching around her to take the last item in the fridge, which was a small orange huddled in the corner.

Dot rolled her eyes and slapped the bottom of his hand, causing the fruit to fly into the air and land in her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. "You shouldn't do that," she said. "It's not healthy. Besides, it's annoying."

"_I'm_ annoying? At least I don't break furniture when I'm in a bad mood! Your temper is ridiculous!" he snapped. Immature, yes, but it _was_ two a.m.

Like a true younger sibling, she was ready with a comeback and a level of brattiness to match his own. "Your _accent_ is ridiculous! You've never even been to England!"

"Well _Michelle_ likes it!"

"_Michelle_ isn't even a toon! What does a human know?"

"Hey!" He snapped out of his bad mood and paused, wounded. "I thought you liked her."

Dot sighed. She'd been revving up for a good fight, and he had to ruin it with that hurt-puppy routine. "I do. It's just . . ." She sidled up next to him and slipped his hat off of his head. Turning it over in her hands, she glanced down at the parts of the fabric near the brim, where it had worn so thin in parts that it was see-through and the stitches that were holding it together were nearly frayed to pieces. He didn't wear it much anymore; he wasn't allowed to at the diner, and he was really concerned with making sure it held up, so he didn't often take it down from the shelf above his bed. He had to have gotten it to celebrate her show. Plopping the hat back over his ears and tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt, she slipped under his arm and snuggled against his side. "It's hard, because Yakko's trying so hard to be one of _them_. And I don't hate them or anything, but they try to make us act like them instead of like us, and . . ." She sighed. "It just would've been easier if you'd found a nice toon girl to fall in love with. Then I wouldn't feel like the only looney one left in Burbank."

He laughed. "Only looney one? That's _bloooooody_ insane," he said, exaggerating his accent and poking her forehead with his nose. "Michelle's just cool. Despite being one of those human things. And I don't even remember what we were fighting about."

She wriggled out from under his arm, wrinkling her nose. "It _should_ have been your smell, but it was an — an orange? I think that was it." She glanced at the clock and sighed. "I should probably get going. Minky'll be home from her . . . whatever she's doing. She said the senior performers stay after to help Jessica with something, but she didn't say what. Or I wasn't listening. Oh well! I have to go find Emily. I hope she isn't too mad . . ."

"What did you do with her?" he asked, relieved that she was leaving. Maybe an hour of sleep _was_ a good idea. . . .

"The Maul. There's plenty to do there, right?" As she put her hand on the doorknob, it spun under her fingers and the door swung away from her, revealing Yakko with dark circles under his eyes and that everlasting smirk on his lips.

"Sorry, sis, but no screaming fights this morning — I just don't have the energy."

She crossed her arms, but the excitement of the evening and that moment with Wakko had left her drained and feeling less antagonistic towards her _other_ brother. "Would you move?" she asked, but it was without her usual bite and they both knew it.

Yakko's smirk widened into a smile so genuine it was almost heartbreaking (or it would have been, had Dot not been focusing her meager energy on not noticing) at the fact that she hadn't shouted at him. After a second, though, it switched back into his typical smug expression as he stepped aside. "I don't know. I . . . _ahhhh_, think I have something you'll want."

Emily was behind him, a hot pink sweater wrapped around her bare shoulders and bags of clothing at her feet. "Hi, Dot," she said with a smile, shrugging the sweater off and handing it to the eldest Warner. "Thanks," she muttered, managing a brief peek at his face before dropping her eyes to his shoes.

"It was my pleasure," he said, restraining the urge to gloat openly in front of his poor, frustrated little sister. "I'll see you around, maybe."

She blushed and stammered, "W-well, only if you want —" before Dot brushed past Yakko and snatched Emily's upper arm, dragging her down the hall.

Once Wakko's door had shut, she shot a glare in her friend's direction. "What, exactly —"

* * *

><p>"was <em>that<em>?" Wakko asked, looking amused.

Yakko shrugged. "What? I met the poor girl wandering the Maul at midnight, paid for a couple tickets to a terrible movie, and brought her home safe and sound. It wasn't —"

* * *

><p>"anything big!" Emily insisted, holding her hands up as though to ward off Dot's anger. "I mean, I'm not exactly —"<p>

* * *

><p>"your type, is she?"<p>

"Ex_squeeze_ me?" Yakko turned to his brother, appalled. "I don't have a type! I'm not some kind of pig or something."

Wakko ticked off characteristics on his fingers. "Blonde, tall (preferably taller than you), big boobs, small waist, tan but not that fake orange-tan that's so popular now . . . fifties-style or post-eighties, but definitely no one who dresses like a hippie or a disco freak." He raised his eyebrows, watching Yakko splutter.

"What? That's . . . I . . . okay, so maybe I have preferences," he conceded. "But we didn't go on a date. It was just a —"

* * *

><p>"Movie. As friends." When Dot didn't say anything, just threw open the door that led from Wakko's apartment building to the street, Emily added, "I don't think he's such a bad guy, Dot. Even if he is a cop."<p>

"It's not that he's a cop!" she exploded, whirling on her. "It's that he's so _sycophantic, _so _toadying, _so _desperate_ to be like a regular human when he's not, he's a toon and no amount of denying it will change anything! And watching him act all mature and responsible is so —"

* * *

><p>"Annoying?" Yakko shrugged. "She apologizes a lot, yeah. And the blushing thing gets old fast. But she's nice, and I felt bad for her. But I can promise that nothing will happen between us." He chuckled at the thought.<p>

* * *

><p>"Promise?" Dot paused at that. "I suppose I can't hate you too much. You <em>are<em> my best friend."

"I am? Really?" Emily wasn't sure whether she should be flattered or offended.

Dot sighed and sat down on the curb. "My brothers think I'm this huge social butterfly because I was really popular in high school, but that was just because I was . . . well, I was surrounded by toons who didn't want to grow up. I get along with those kinds of people. But then they all wanted to become more like Mr. Plotz and less like Bugs Bunny, and we kind of lost touch. It's weird, because I used to talk to them all the time. Babs, Fifi, even Elmira . . . but now they're veterinarians, teachers . . . and Elmy's a poet. Can you believe that? And I've read her stuff — it's _good_." When Emily sat next to her, not understanding a word but knowing that she was supposed to be supportive and let her talk, Dot rested her head against hers. "It's just hard, you know. Toons seem to be disappearing."

"Maybe they're growing up." Emily hooked an arm awkwardly around the small girl's shoulders. "It might not be such a bad thing that they're getting older. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. And as long as everyone's doing what makes them happy and keeps them fed . . . why shouldn't you be loony and they be sane?"

Dot sat up, her eyes focused on something Emily couldn't see. "I guess so," she said. "I'd never thought of it like that." After a moment she added, "I'm glad I met you."

"So am I." She stood and offered Dot her hand, who ignored it and bounced up a good two feet in the air before landing on her feet, her tail swishing for balance.

"And I've forgiven you for hanging out with my stupid big brother."

Emily rolled her eyes. "I'm glad about that, too."

As they started walking back to Minerva's apartment, Dot added, "And maybe he needs someone to spend time with. To teach him to be zany again, of course." She gave Emily a sideways glance. "As long as you don't do it too often, or get all kissy-face or anything. That'd be weird."

She turned bright red, but her friend couldn't tell in the darkness. So it wasn't too difficult to keep her voice sounding natural when she said, "Yeah, like that'd happen. Maybe if we were both hammered . . ."

Dot laughed, then poked her in the side. "Don't get drunk. It'd be unnatural."

"I'll try not to . . . best friend." She knew it was silly to bring up (if this was a Disney movie, they'd start singing right about now), but she'd never had a best friend before. She'd _played_ plenty, sure, but in real life princesses didn't hang out with chubby sidekicks.

"Good. Race you to Minky's!" With that, she took off, leaving Emily to stumble after her, laughing too hard to even attempt to keep up.

* * *

><p>Susan tilted her head back until it touched the bricks of the building she was leaning on. It was about two o'clock; where on earth could she be?<p>

She heard Minerva before she saw her — the rustle of crepe-back satin, the harsh _clip-clop_ of heels on the sidewalk, sounding strangely like a horse in the early-morning stillness. In other parts of Burbank the night would have only been getting into full swing, but near the Ink and Paint Club and Minerva's apartment, the buildings were mostly inhabited by struggling postgrad students and businessmen, who stayed up into the early hours, sure, but they were either drinking alone or studying or both. So it was through dead air that her oldest friend shuffled into view, rubbing at a crick in her neck and cursing.

"Stupid, fat son of a — why do they always insist on being on — Susan?" She threw her head back to get her hair out of her face, peering through long fake eyelashes and the dim street. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "I thought when you were done with work we could hang out," she said, then glanced down at her watch. "I guess that's not exactly an option anymore."

"Sorry. Jessica wanted a lot out of us tonight. Just hope you'll never be stuck as a 'senior performer.'" She rolled her eyes and laughed — almost convincingly. "So, you wanna come in for tea or something? I think we have tea . . ." Fumbling with her keys and refusing to meet Susan's eyes, she let them into the building and led the way to her apartment.

"Minky, what exactly do senior performers do?"

"Oh, whatever Jessica asks. A little of this, a little of that, some dancing practice, you know."

Susan knew that she was lying, and had a growing suspicion as to why. Suddenly something caught her gaze. "Hey, you've got something on your . . . oh." Her fingers, which had almost brushed against the strange goop on the hip of her dress, fell away quickly.

Minerva ignored her, too busy pretending to have trouble getting her door open. "Hmm? Oh, this dress is old. I need to ask Jessica for a new one, maybe in a different color . . . I'm really getting sick of red, you know —"

"Minky, tell me exactly what's on your dress, and what it has to do with being a senior performer."

"You're making a big deal out of a tiny little thing," Minerva said, pulling the dress over her head once the door swung shut. Susan stood in the blackness, listening to her friend stumble around. "Hold on, the light's in here somewhere . . . ah!" With a _click, _the room was flooded with a flickering buttery light, and the mink was dressed in pajama bottoms and a tank top. Without surprise at the sudden change, Susan made her away across the crowded floor and took a seat on the couch, listening to the fingernails-on-chalkboard squeaking of the springs as the poor frame tried to hold her weight. Mister stuck his head out of the kitchen, his ears pricked up at the arrival of the women. Minerva clucked her tongue and held out her long fingers towards him, but the cat chose to rub himself against Susan's legs instead.

She ignored Mister, placing her hands in her lap and waiting patiently. As the silence stretched out and spiraled languidly through the air, Minerva realized that she had to stop pretending to play with her pet. She picked up the dress, which had puddled around her feet when she'd changed clothes, and carried it into the kitchen, turning on the sink and running cold water over the stain. "I don't know what to tell you," she said, hearing Susan come in behind her but refusing to turn around. "You already know what I'm going to say."

There was a moment of silence, and then a silken slithering as Susan lowered herself to the floor. "Will we have to do it?" she asked.

Minerva shrugged one shoulder, and the tank top slid down her upper arm. Impatiently she yanked it up, splattering both of them with icy water. "Maybe. It depends on how popular you guys get. But . . . yeah, probably. Everyone else does, except Jessica. That's why she doesn't want us married, after all, because I guess adultery is just going too _far _for her."

"Why didn't you tell me? I quit my job for this."

"What was I supposed to do?" she replied, keeping her voice cold and clipped. "I couldn't tell you the truth — would _you_ have? Besides, you can always get it back. And the girls . . ." She sighed. "I feel bad. Not so much about Dot, because she's always been a little wild, but Emily . . . will have a lot of trouble. But what are we supposed to do? We're toons, trained for nothing!" She reached for a sponge and began scrubbing vigorously. "You were the smart one. You have options." Susan remained silent, but Minerva knew that she was still staring. Suddenly she felt like ants were crawling over her skin. She felt dirty. "You wanna know everything? I suppose you deserve that, considering what I've gotten you into, but just remember that it's your fault, too. Not just mine." She couldn't feel her hands anymore, but continued rubbing at the dress, because she could still see it, the stain that had come from a guy who had gotten too excited too fast.

It happened more often than one would think.

"It's good money," she said. "Well, it would be, if I lived somewhere cheaper." She glanced around at her cramped, tiny apartment and sighed. "Some of the girls have houses, but they split the rent and live way out of town, where there's nothing. It's fairly easy, too, because Jessica has a lot of rules. They aren't allowed to hurt us, and they have to supply their own condoms. She's a fair . . . pimp? Madam?" She laughed and said, "It's weird to think about, because we try really hard to never think about it. That might be why it's such a well-kept secret: the men who know won't tell, and the women who know don't think about it." The stain was gone, she knew that, and if she kept rubbing at the same spot with the rough sponge, she was going to destroy the already-ailing dress. She set it aside and began to knead at the cloth with her fingers to make sure the water was running clear of soap. "'We chose sex work after we did a lot of things we couldn't stand. Sex work is better. For me, sex work isn't my first choice of paying work. It just happens to be the best alternative available. It's better than being president of someone else's corporation. It's better than being a secretary. It is the most honest work I know of.'"

"Who said that?" Susan asked. Of course she knew what words weren't hers, what Minerva could never say with such eloquence or profundity. Or ceaseless repetitions of the uncomfortable phrase "sex work."

"Veronica Monet. Wrote about it in some magazine. I looked it up soon after . . . Well, it's from 1994, but the library has archives, you know." She waited for her friend to ask another question, or to say something that would break this spell of truth-telling she was under, like "I understand" or even "Hmm." If Susan would only say that, then she could brush this whole matter aside and move on, maybe get some sleep. But she didn't. Of course she wouldn't. After a few futile seconds she added, "I know I've been losing weight. I've been sad. But it's not this. I mean, yeah, it's kind of uncomfortable, and yeah, the guys are usually pretty gross, but that's not the problem. What bothers me is how little this bothers me. My life isn't ruined, because this isn't all that different from what the Warner Bros. studio had in mind when they drew me. I was _made_ for this. How sick is that?" Tears sprang into her eyes and her hands clenched into fists around the fabric, splashing icy water onto her face and neck. "If I could just hate myself for doing this every week," she whispered, "it would be a lot easier to like myself. It would be less wrong if it felt more wrong." Finally she turned off the water, letting the soaked dress fall into the basin, and turned to face her far wiser best friend. "Does any of that make sense?"

Susan surprised Minerva by smiling. Rising to her feet, she put both hands to the side of her face and opened her mouth in a small red O, popping up one of her legs for good measure like Betty Boop. "I don't know what to say, the monkeys won't do," she said, her voice lower and smoother than usual; Minerva recognized it as her Hello Nurse voice. She dropped the persona and added, "I know exactly what you mean, Minky." She gave her a quick hug, which were a rare gift (Minerva suspected that it was because Susan's anatomy made it difficult to get her arms around people). "And that's why I won't be quitting, at least not until I give it a shot."

Minerva's mouth dropped open, her expression an inadvertent mirror of Hello Nurse's/Betty Boop's. "Really?" she asked, astonished. "But _why_?"

"It might be better than being a secretary. Besides, I think the library's already hired a nice, non-toon girl to run their tech department. I don't think they liked me all that much."

"So you don't think I'm . . . some sort of freak?" Though it shouldn't have, even saying the question out loud — airing a concern that she'd held inside for years from her favorite person in the world — filled her with intense trepidation.

"Well, yes, but for entirely unrelated reasons. Like your attachment to that yowling nightmare," she said, glancing down at the cat, who was sitting at their feet and crying for food. "Now, not to sound too much like old Mister here," she said, nudging him with her bare foot, "but do you have anything to eat around here?"

Feeling almost dizzy with relief, Minerva dried her hands and turned to the fridge. "I think so," she said, shoving aside half-empty juice containers and old yogurt. "Actually, come to think of it, I'm _starving_."

"Good to hear." Susan glanced out the window as the sounds of Minerva's roommates shattered the serene air, giddy and giggling. "How do you think they'll take it?" she asked softly, listening as they headed into the building.

Minerva paused, packages of deli meat piled on one arm and a loaf of bread resting against her hip. "I don't know," she replied. "If we're lucky, we won't have to find out."


	10. The Big Brother

A/N: This one is pretty long, but my betas agreed that there wasn't anywhere to cut it, so I hope you guys enjoy it despite its length! Many thanks to Caramel Cheescake, L100Meganium, and Authoressinhiding for being absolutely wonderful despite my huge, rapid updates.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER TEN<p>

"Don't brag," Emily whispered as they entered the Ink and Paint Club. Jessica had decided that they would work with Minerva and Susan on Sunday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights — not to mention the entire-ensemble extravaganza every Saturday — and they were to come in and practice with twenty or thirty women the day of the show. So it was a lovely Sunday morning at nine o'clock that greeted the sleep-deprived and exhilarated Dot and Emily — as well as Susan and Minerva, who were, respectively, sleep-deprived and exhilarated (though perhaps "Minky" was just relieved). "Don't," she repeated as Dot's eyes alighted on her mentor, who was conveniently on the same schedule; Jessica really had thought everything through, down to the last detail.

Ignoring Emily, Dot marched up to Aurora Munoz, who watched her, wary and sullen. Dot took a deep breath and Emily leapt back, tromping on the feet of the blue-haired actress in her haste to get out of the inevitable torrent of rage and triumph. However, she surprised them all by letting out the air and saying quite calmly, "Told you." She stuck out her tongue and walked away. Munoz stared at her in shock, then started swearing rapidly in Spanish and stormed after Dot; in a matter of seconds a screaming match had erupted.

Over the shrieks and foreign expletives (in an attempt to top her mentor, Dot often fell into fits of Yiddish), Suzy Sunshine beamed at Emily and said, "You did a really good job last night! I was so proud!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! But Jessica had just a couple teeny-tiny notes, so I think we should go over them for a sec, okay?" As she pulled out the paper her perky demeanor faded, and her resemblance to Emily's lawyer, Ariel, was shocking. They both had that same no-nonsense manner under a Barbie-like cheer. Emily realized that Suzy must be a mutt, which made her much more interesting; mutts were rarely allowed into the community because they were only partially Disney toons, and they were apparently too difficult (though too difficult for what, she had no idea). In fact, Emily only knew of a handful she'd ever seen in her life. . . . Before she could ask, Suzy was off, her voice a lightning-fast monotone. "Don't act so afraid at the beginning. You're supposed to look like you're on a cloud or something, so try to look more eth . . . etheral?"

"Ethereal?"

"Yeah. That. Does the corset hurt?"

"A little, but it's not that bad . . ."

"Good. Keep it. Today you're supposed to practice your song more, because you didn't sound confident enough."

"I thought I was supposed to be shy."

She shrugged. "Me too, but that's what the boss wants. Confident singing. Just . . . do whatever you can today and we'll see what she says. Maybe you should try something less scared. Go over your lines."

Meanwhile, Dot and Aurora had given up their screaming match and were trying to figure out exactly what Jessica had actually ordered them to do. "The dress has to go," Munoz was saying.

Dot rolled her eyes. "I _rocked_ that dress, but whatever. What am I supposed to wear instead?"

"Something _cuuuuute_, I'm sure," she sneered.

"I can't help it if I'm cute!"

"You're about as cute as fungus, so get over yourself."

"Still makes me twice as cute as you!"

"_Pinche puta!_"

"I'LL PINCH YOUR . . . what does that even mean?"

And with that, another fight had begun.

* * *

><p>Yakko waited an entire thirty seconds after Wakko had gone out "with Michelle" before slipping out the door after him. Wakko had never been the most observant kid, and years working in a diner surely hadn't sharpened his senses; Yakko knew that he wouldn't have to do much skulking in the shadows to shadow his little brother. Not that he really needed to. Emily had cheerfully and cluelessly explained to him that they were working with Minerva Mink and Susan Polk (of course his first thought had been <em>Helloooo, nurse!<em>) at a place called the Ink and Paint Club, and were going to be performing this very night.

He had been proud of himself for keeping his face politely bland, though he couldn't keep his hands from clenching into fists over and over again for the rest of the night. Not that he was going to make a scene or demand that Dot quit, but the thought of his poor, innocent little sister crooning above horny alcoholics with midlife crises . . .

To his surprise, Wakko hadn't lied, as his meandering stroll through Burbank was headed in the exact opposite direction of ToonTown and its most popular attraction. Just when Yakko had started to think that Emily was somehow mistaken and they actually worked at an IHOP, the middle Warner stopped at an old apartment building and pushed the buzzer. "I'm here!" he called into the loudspeaker.

"What part of your body did you hit the button with?" a young woman's voice crackled.

"My finger this time!"

She laughed. "Liar!"

"Well, I couldn't reach with my foot." Yakko smirked. With one word, his little brother had illustrated the major difference between the two of them.

Michelle seemed to reach a similar conclusion. She opened her window, which was just above Wakko's head, and leaned her elbows on the sill. "Your _foot_, huh?" she called down, amused.

Wakko didn't seem to get it. His tongue slipped out of his mouth as he stared up at her. "Um . . . yeah?" He held up one sneaker-clad paw.

She laughed, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair in a movement that would have been Hello-Nurse-esque, if she had been a toon. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay!" The girl was true to her word; Wakko had only managed to whistle half of "Chopsticks" before she appeared. He held up one hand as she leaned in to kiss him and finished the song. Then he gave her a chaste peck, took her hand, and they headed back the way he'd come.

"Are you excited?" Michelle asked. Wakko shrugged, swinging their clasped hands back and further. "Nervous?"

"I've never been to the Ink and Paint Club. I don't know what it's like."

"No kidding!" She shook her head. "I thought everyone had been there. I used to go all the time with my mom." There was a moment of silence as she pondered her statement. "Come to think of it, that's a little weird," she said. "I was twelve."

"Well, Yakko and Buster went a lot," he sad, "but by the time I was old enough to care, Yakko was planning to go to college and didn't have time for that kind of thing. So I never went." He shrugged and rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, adjusting a hat that wasn't there. "What's it like?" he asked, suddenly bashful.

"Singing and dancing. All-toon cast. Mostly female." She nudged him with her shoulder. "I promise they won't bite you," she teased.

Yakko let himself fall behind, watching them banter (well, Michelle bantered. Wakko, true to form, was pretty quiet, preferring belching and Gookies to vocal responses). They really worked well together, way better than any of Wakko's other girlfriends had. In fact, way better than any of _his_ girlfriends had. Torn between pleasure and jealousy, he followed them to the club, where all thoughts of his brother and Michelle flew out of his mind.

Normally when one returns to a place where they'd spent most of their time as a child, it seems smaller. That was how the Maul had been. But the Ink and Paint Club was different.

The Ink and Paint Club was _bigger_.

For a moment he could only stand there, staring at the same wood building, the same flickering neon lights advertising Guinness and Coors, the same parking lot that only had forty or so spaces but somehow managed to hold upwards of eighty cars crammed bumper-to-bumper (with more trailing down both sides of the street), the same never-aging Betty Boop standing outside the door with a tray of buzzers, handing them to customers and explaining how much time they had to wait for a table. Shoving his hands in his pockets and letting Wakko and Michelle disappear into the building, he strolled up to Betty, a smile spreading across his face despite himself. "_Hello_, Betty," he said, cutting to the front of the line without anyone noticing; a fight had broken out near the end and everyone had turned to watch.

She beamed, nearly dropping her tray in her haste to hug him. "_Yakko_!" she squealed. "I'd heard you were in town! It's been so long!"

"You don't look a day over thirty," he said, leaning in obligingly so she could peck him on the cheek.

"I should say so," she cooed, preening. "Considering what I'm paying that animator to touch me up, I should look like a million bucks." After accepting his generous compliments for a few minutes, she said, "Your brother just went in — are you eating with them?" She stood on her tiptoes, peering around him. "Anyone with you, Yakko?"

He shook his head, sighing inwardly as her expression melted into one of pity. "Nah. And I'm not with them. Just . . . ended up at the same place."

Betty smiled, ignoring the shouts emanating from the depths of the parking lot as the fight got more violent. "Going to see Dot, then, are ya?"

"Yeah. But it's a surprise," he added hastily, "so don't tell her."

"Oh, you can trust _me_ not to spill the beans," she replied, giving him a long look that he wouldn't have understood at eighteen and she wouldn't have given, even though she'd sneaked him cocktails once a week. Now, though, he flashed her a bright grin and allowed her to look. She was nice, and if she was going to get him into the club ahead of the mob, he'd let her look at whatever she wanted.

"If you're okay with a table in the back, I can let you in now . . ." she said, her eyes flicking over his shoulder at the lot, where the fight was beginning to break up. "But it'd have to be fast."

"I'll stand if that's what you need." He allowed her to hold open the door and slipped inside, immediately engulfed by warm air that was always thick with the scent of cigarettes, even though no one was allowed to smoke in the building. A small gray cat in a black-and-white dress led him over to his seat, and it wasn't until she'd handed him his menu that he recognized her. "Rita? What're you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes. "What does it look like I'm doing? Meow-Mix commercials?" She pulled a glass of water from behind her back and set it on the table. "It's just to give me something to do between albums, don't worry."

"Good to hear it," he said, stripping the paper off of his straw and balling it between his fingers. "And how's Runt?"

"Doing Meow-Mix commercials," she said. "He thinks they're for dogs, and Plotz said I can't tell him any different. Folks find it real funny. Humans," she added, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

He cleared his throat and stirred his water, not quite willing to meet her eyes. "Those wacky humans," he agreed. _Not like I work for them or anything, not me._

He felt Rita's hand on his shoulder, and he knew that she knew. "Take care of yourself, kid. I'll bring you a beer on the house, for old time's sake."

"Water's fine." As she left, the house lights dimmed. He sat back to watch the show, hooking an ice cube with his index finger and slipping it into his mouth.

The first act — a "revenge of the nerds"-style skit, one of the few involving male performers — surprised him, because the tall, leggy blonde in the cheerleader's jacket and heels was oddly familiar. Was that _Hello Nurse? _He bolted upright, leaning forward to see the stage better and trying to remember whether Emily had mentioned working with any other _Animaniacs!_ stars. She'd said something about a Susan . . . _was_ that her real name? It was amazing that he didn't know. For a moment he was a kid again, watching the impossibly-beautiful Hello Nurse strut across the studio lot with her nose in a textbook and her arm in Minerva Mink's, not fully understanding what he was seeing but knowing that it was magical.

Rita set a plate in front of him, breaking the spell. On it was a sugar cookie with a smiley face drawn in chocolate chips. "I had that taken out of my paycheck, so you'd better enjoy it," she said, a small smile belying her typical gruffness.

"Thanks, Rita. Where's the bathroom?" Not even looking where she was pointing (he knew the way), he made his way to across the restaurant into the back, where the kitchen, bathrooms, and a small, unmarked door were hidden under a flickering light. He allowed himself pause for a second, taking a deep breath, and then knocked on the final, blank door. When there was no response, he cracked it open and stuck his head inside. "Hello?"

The room was empty, as was the office behind it. Hearing the roar of applause as one of the "nerds" tossed a football into the crowd — he heard Hello Nurse shout a ditzy "Does that mean we won?" to the fervent approval of the audience — he slipped through the door and took a seat in the waiting room inside. In here he could hardly hear the din. It was rather boring, actually. He picked up a magazine ("Is JOHNNY DEPP Really the SEXIEST MAN ALIVE? What You NEED TO KNOW!" the cover read, Jack Sparrow's makeup-coated face grinning up at him through a mass of dreadlocks), leafing through it impatiently and feeling his stomach slowly tighten up into a smaller and smaller ball.

Finally the act must have ended, because the door opened and a wave of cheers tore through the room. Jessica Rabbit leapt into the room bust-first, as usual, and slammed the door shut. For a moment she stared at the thick wood, rubbing the bridge of her nose and groaning. Suddenly taking notice of him, she started, then settled her expression into one of serenity and professionalism. "Mr. Warner," she said, sounding like she'd managed to inhale all the smoke in the restaurant and channel it into those two words.

And man, if it wasn't sexy as all get-out . . .

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, climbing to his feet. _Didn't hear you over the sound of my brain catching on fire._

"I said that it's been a while."

Everyone was going to notice that, weren't they? He'd only been away for two years; it wasn't like he'd left for a decade! "I have something to talk to you about, Mrs. Rabbit." Aside from the fact that his voice had cracked on "Rabbit," he was managing to not sound like a gibbering prepubescent quite well.

Luckily, Jessica was used to getting this reaction. She led him into the office and sat behind the desk. "Should I . . ." she began, gesturing at the oversized sweatshirt hanging on the wall behind her.

_It won't help. _But he was here for an extremely unpleasant reason, and the fewer distractions, the better. "Yes, thank you." Keeping his eyes on his knees as she shrugged into the shirt, he listened as she said, "So what is this all about?"

"You hired Dot." That was supposed to come out better, but tact had never been his specialty.

"I have. In fact, she'll be on in . . . oh, about an hour. I'll need to go out and supervise her performance, so if we could make this rather quick —"

"Are you going to make her . . . will she . . . ?" He'd been a regular customer here; they both knew what he was unable to articulate.

She raised her thin eyebrows. "Isn't your sister almost twenty-five now?" she asked coolly.

"Twenty-one. Barely."

She sighed, blowing the red hair that always seemed to fall in front of her eye out of the way and leaning forward. "Don't you think that she is old enough to make her own decisions by now, Mr. Warner?"

"You don't have a little sister, do you?" She didn't respond, but sat back and glanced at her watch. She looked bored. Almost two minutes passed as he tried to figure out what he could say, and then to work up the courage to say it.

"Listen, Mr. Warner, I should get out there, so —" She started to stand, and his hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist in one snakelike motion.

"Please don't make her do it." Again his voice cracked, and he cringed. "I'll do anything." He knew that he ought to be asking about Emily, too, but there was no way he was going to risk his sister's chances by asking for two favors. And if it came down to one or the other. . . . Well, there was no contest.

Jessica sat back down, pulling his hand away from hers and watching him with wary eyes. "And what exactly would I do with you?" she asked. "I don't need any more _acts_."

_She's your baby sister, Yakko. Just say it. _"I — I suppose that I could . . . take her place." There. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. "It'd bring in a whole new group of customers. I mean, I know I'm not . . . but —" He was desperately clawing for words and coming up dry.

She held up a hand, mercifully cutting him off. "We've considered it, Mr. Warner," she said, rummaging through her desk drawers and pulling out a thick binder. Opening to the center, she showed him long lists of names and numbers. "There's not enough profit in it. We have our niche, and it would not be economically viable to change it. I'm very sorry, but that's the way it is." She stood, ending the conversation. As he opened the door to leave, she surprised him by asking, "What if I had said yes?"

He turned back. It wasn't often that Jessica Rabbit looked her age — her animator must have been paid a small fortune as well — but right then she did. "Well, I suppose I'd have a lot to explain to Dot," he said with a shrug.

Could he be imagining the lines on her face, the tired set of her pouty mouth? "You would do that?"

"For my sibs? Anything." He hesitated for a moment, wondering if she was changing her mind. Was that what those bags under her eyes meant?

She shook her head, and her curtain of hair obscured her face for just a second. When it fell back, she looked just as beautiful and perfect as she always had. "I wish I could do more for you, but I'm afraid it is just not possible. But your sister's act should be on in a moment. If you would . . ."

He forced a smile, thanked her, and made it back to his table just as the lights went down. There was a beer sweating on a coaster in front of him and he chuckled. Rita never _could_ listen to anyone.

Emily looked surprisingly like Glinda as she sat center stage. Her makeup was done so that her eyes were gigantic and her lips were tiny, like a china doll or one of those Japanese chicks, and she blinked every few seconds like she was . . . well, like she was a Disney princess. She started singing and he caught a glimpse of Dot skulking in the background, wearing the same poofy dress but with a wicked grin on her face.

As far as acts went, this one wasn't terribly challenging for his little sister. She had to annoy the ever-innocent Emily until the latter snapped; it was typical _Animaniacs!_ fare, a skit the Warners had done countless times. As the song continued, Dot became increasingly pushy and Emily became increasingly annoyed, and they began singing louder in an attempt to drown the other out.

Despite himself, despite everything that had happened, Yakko found himself laughing.

They began to make their way into the "thrust" of the thrust stage, racing down the long platform between the tables in an attempt to outshine the other and shrieking "MY HEART HAS WINGS!" at the tops of their voices. At the very end, Dot went head-over-heels, taking Emily down with her. For a second he wasn't sure whether that was intentional or not, but considering the lack of swearing from the youngest Warner and the roar of the crowd, he assumed it must be part of the act. He rose to his feet with the rest, clapping and managing to forget that Dot hated him, that Jessica had refused to help him.

In his pride and love, he forgot everything.

They skidded to a stop in a heap of satin and tangled limbs. Both faces were inches away from his own.

Under her fur, Dot turned white.

Emily turned purple.

Finally Dot hauled herself to her feet and bowed, dragging Emily up by the scruff of her neck, which caused another shout of approval from the audience. Beaming identical "good girl" smiles, they skipped offstage arm in arm. Yakko caught the eye of a burly middle-aged man in a suit and screaming plaid tie, who winked at him and made the universal motion for sex.

He was about to lunge at him when Wakko's arm clamped down on his. "Didn't know you were coming," he said with a smile that suggested he'd known the whole time. "Does Dot know you're here?"

From behind the stage they heard the sounds of glass breaking and muffled screaming. Jessica strode past in a wave of red and gold, her eyes blazing and her jaw clenched. Yakko shrugged and turned back to his little brother with a smirk.

"I think so, Waks. I really do."


	11. The First Step

A/N: Thanks to beta-readers Caramel Cheescake, L100Meganium, and Authoressinhiding for continuing to read this and offer their suggestions!

* * *

><p>CHAPTER ELEVEN<p>

"Listen, it's going to be okay. We were great tonight, and there's nothing he —"

"WHAT DOES HE THINK HE'S DOING HERE?"

"He probably just wants to support —"

"I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SUPPORT! RIGHT HERE!"

"Dot, that doesn't even make sense!"

"SO _YOU'RE_ GONNA RIDE ME NOW?"

It was just like their skit: Emily would try to be calm and understanding, and Dot would get more and more insufferable, until . . . "Okay, you know what? That's _it_! I'm done trying to help you! You're an irrational, angry . . . wait, are you drunk?"

Dot paused, her dress caught around her head with her arms flailing helplessly. "I'd rather not say," she said, using her cuteness to full advantage (or as full an advantage as she could have while being smothered by layers of silk). "Could you give me a hand, or was that done-helping-me thing serious?"

Emily sighed and stomped over to Dot, helping her untangle from the fabric. "Don't rip it, and don't crumple . . ." She trailed off as Dot flung the dress into the corner. Still struggling with her own dress, which she hadn't had the time or the courage to remove with Dot freaking out in the dressing room, she managed to lower herself enough to snag a sleeve with her middle finger and pull it to her. "Does Minerva have an iron?" she asked, trying to smooth out the wrinkles Dot had made. "I'm pretty good at this kind of thing. It's because I'm a Disney. Not that I'm bragging or anything." Of course she was. Warner Brothers toons were funny, sure, and no one could be flattened better, but when it came to _practical_ powers, there was no competition.

Her best friend and coworker had thrown herself onto the room's one couch, an arm draped over her face like she was a damsel in a silent drama. "Why me, Em?" she said. "Why must the beautiful ones always suffer the most? Why couldn't I be blessed with blandness and normalcy like you?" Emily pressed her lips into a tight line and said nothing. "Oh, I know you've had hardships — that bench thing wasn't a party, and neither was the not-having-clothes-for-a-week thing — but Jessica paid your way, and what has anyone done for me? Where is _my_ Jessica to carry me away from _my_ problems?"

"Dot, no one deserves an Oscar more than you. Now about that iron —"

"I'm serious!" She sat up. "Yakko is embarrassing! Not to mention bad for my reputation. On top of that, I don't have my own place to live, and I have to _work_. I'm beginning to understand what orphan Annie was talking about." She whistled a few bars of "It's a Hard-Knock Life" and slumped over the arm of the couch. "I'm too depressed to move, even."

"That's good. When your brothers show up to have a deep talk about your values and decisions, they'll know exactly where to find you." She laid Dot's dress along the floor, pressing her palms and knees into the fabric in an attempt to smooth it out. If only she had a bird or two . . . "You might want to put something on, though."

Dot's eyes widened and she leapt to her feet, spinning in midair and landing fully dressed. "No!" she cried. "I'm not talking to him! I don't have the energy to deal with another argument!" She raced around the room, tapping on the walls and peering for cracks. "There has to be a secret passageway in here or something, right? I mean, why wouldn't there be?"

"Why —" She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Dot let out a breathless shriek and dove into their wardrobe (which creaked loudly, as it wasn't a very good wardrobe). Relieved that she hadn't removed the cumbersome dress after all, Emily waddled over to the door and pulled it open. "Hi!" she said. "Looking for Dot?"

"Don't tell them I'm here!" the Warner sister hissed. She shifted inside the wardrobe and it made another alarming groan. There was a gasp of pain, which most likely meant she had snagged herself on a shard of the splintery wood.

Wakko was the only Warner at the door, however. He cocked his head to the side, one of his ears pricking up. "Should I come back later?" he asked.

At the sound of her brother's voice, the wardrobe door squeaked open a hair, and a long white tube of eyeball peered through the crack like a periscope. "Wakko? Are you alone or is this a trick? I saw him in the audience, I _know_ he's here. . . ."

"He left."

The eyeball was sucked back into the cabinet with an unappealing _schloop! _sound. Her entire head emerged, and her expression was uncertain. "Really? Where'd he go?"

Wakko shrugged. "Dunno."

"You're a ton of help." She rolled her eyes and hopped out. "He didn't ask about me or anything?" she asked.

He just shrugged.

"Well, that's good. Don't have to worry about kicking his ass today, I suppose." Still, she looked disappointed. "I'll see you around, Em — oh, come on." She snatched the dress from Emily's hands. With a flick of her wrists, the fabric was smooth and straight as a pin, and Dot leaned it up against the wall before leaving.

"Wow . . ." Emily squatted beside it, tugging at the laces in the back of her corset as she did so, her mouth hanging open in disbelief and indignation. "Of all the . . . oh!" One of her ankles gave out, and she tilted precariously to one side as lace and chenille blocked her vision.

Suddenly there was a hand at her elbow, and with a grunt she was hoisted upright. "You all right?" He sounded a little out of breath, but she recognized his voice immediately and blushed.

"I'm fine!" she cried, pulling away from him and adjusting her curls, wincing. The hairspray had turned sticky. "Dot's not here. You just missed her, in fact, and Wakko, but I'll bet if you hurry you can catch up with them. Though you'd have to leave. Right now. Quickly." As much as she liked Yakko, she wanted nothing more than to finish getting out of this stupid dress. She could practically hear her sweatpants calling for her.

He shook his head, the tips of his ears gently tapping the sides of his temples. "Nah, I came with Wakko, and we decided it was best that he try and get her in a better mood before I go talk to her. And since I have at least an hour to kill . . ." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned back against the doorframe and cocked his head to the side. "I thought I'd see what you're up to."

So much for sweatpants. "Oh! Well, I don't have anything to do." She tried to sound casual, though her voice had climbed a few notches. "I just have to get changed out of —" Her corset's laces, which had been steadily loosening as she moved, finally gave up, and the pale blue fabric dropped to the floor. Her dress was still covering her, but she looked embarrassed anyway, wrapping her arms around herself.

He held up his hands. "Say no more. I'll see you in a second." Once the door had shut, she slithered out of the dress, relieved that no one was there to watch her struggle with the fabric. She rummaged around the room, searching under couch cushions and in the splintered depths of the closet for anything that wasn't baggy cotton, all the time marveling at her fortune. She knew that Yakko wasn't exactly popular in Burbank, but why had he chosen to spend time with her?

* * *

><p>Why had he chosen to hang out with Emily? Yakko tapped his claws on the bar, keeping his gaze split between the restaurant — where Wakko could appear at any moment with Dot in tow, in which case he'd have to hide or face a mallet to the head — and the back, where the dressing rooms were located and his dinner partner was sure to emerge.<p>

Dot was going to kill him if he kept talking to her friends. And while he had never had a problem making his little sister mad enough to spit bullets (in fact, usually he delighted in it), he was toeing the line of Dot's wrath more than usual. And _why_?

He took a swig of . . . lemonade, pondering the question. Part of it was an ego boost; the girl was absolutely fascinated with everything anyone had to say, which was probably part of why Dot liked her so much. Besides, there was something funny about someone who had so little understanding of how the world worked.

The bartender shot him a dark look and he retracted his claws, wishing he still wore his gloves. They'd fallen apart one day, nothing more than shreds of thin, grayed fabric, and it had never occurred to him to pick up new ones.

"Hey." He started at the voice, almost falling off the bar stool. _I'm getting out of practice, _he thought. Wilkins would die laughing if she'd seen that . . . at least, if he wasn't half-convinced that she was incapable of mirth of any kind.

Of course, it was understandable that he'd be shocked. He hadn't expected his little sister to be willing to even _look_ at him, let alone make the first move. Yet there she was, looking uncomfortable and rather risqué in a tight brown miniskirt and white tank top that didn't quite reach her bellybutton. Her hair — since he was always screaming at her, he hadn't really noticed that she'd grown it out almost to her shoulders — was still stiff and shiny from the performance, and she hadn't bothered to take most of the makeup off, leaving her lips bright red and her eyes ringed with black and blue.

_Don't say anything, Yakko. Don't ruin what you have. _But when had he ever listened to any advice, no matter how good it was? "I think I met a tranny stripper that looked like you, once. She was a raccoon." He twirled his index finger in a circular motion, gesturing at her eyes. "There's a resemblance."

Dot took a deep breath, and for a second he was certain he was about to have it. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the backstage area, sighed, and spun around. She sat down on the stool next to his, her makeup gone and her clothes replaced with a pair of lime green pajama bottoms and a faded gray T-shirt. He smiled; those had been her pajamas for most of her teenage years, though he hadn't seen her wear them since she'd graduated high school. They made her look much younger, like the last five years hadn't happened. "You're not supposed to say 'tranny,'" she muttered, gesturing the bartender over. "Especially out here. It's offensive."

"Ah. Right. Forgot about that. Living up in the sticks will do that to you." He waved away the offer of a drink, holding his tongue when Dot ordered whiskey. They were both going to be on their best behavior if it killed them.

"Right. The sticks. And how is it up there?" She looked back over her shoulder again before dropping her eyes to the bar. She seemed torn between nervousness and resentment. The latter was familiar. The former wasn't.

"You'd hate it. Not a decent club for miles, and three hours to the city." She shuddered, making them both chuckle a little. After a few moments of silence, during which Dot received her drink, swallowed it all in one gulp, and ordered another, he said, "Why are you working here, sis?"

She shrugged. "I need a job so that Plotz won't kill me. And this one lets me still act like a toon." She paused, waiting to see if he'd reply to the dig (he could tell she really wanted to, so he stayed quiet), then continued. "It's fun, I get to hang out with my friends, and I get to work with _Jessica Rabbit_. I don't think I have to tell you how cool that is." Dot finally met his eyes, poking her tongue into her cheek so that she was pushing her cutie mark in his direction. "Besides," she said, "I had to get this for the movie anyway. Why not put my extra-adorableness to good use?"

"That's true." Yakko struggled in silence for a moment, trying to decide whether he was willing to tell her what he knew about her job. Would she assume he was lying, trying to sabotage her? Would she scream and storm out? Or even worse, would she give him that same petulant shrug that she had perfected and say that it wasn't all that big a deal, nothing she hadn't done before?

He was terrified of both answers, and couldn't bring himself to ask.

* * *

><p>Dot watched her brother pluck peanuts out of the bowl that the bartender had set out for them, flicking them at the amber- and garnet-colored bottles. It was a nervous habit she recognized from childhood; Yakko had always been a fiddler, especially when there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. Normally she would have snatched the bowl away and demanded to know what was wrong. <em>"Just because you're the oldest doesn't mean you can keep secrets, Yakko!"<em>

But she had questions she didn't want to ask, either. Like why he'd abandoned them. What about New York was so special that he had to get away? Why a cop, of all things? Didn't he know what kind of reputation that gave them? Even Plotz, who had been so excited that Yakko was taking responsibility, had fallen silent when he had told their legal guardian what he wanted to do. Dot still remembered his face, drawn and quiet, so unlike himself. Even when he'd recovered and patted the eldest Warner on the back, there had been a dull look in his eyes, like he was in shock.

Sure, she'd asked those questions, technically. But screaming them while throwing things had never elicited any quality answers. _Maybe I shouldn't be so rash_, she thought. _Maybe if I thought things through more, everything would be different._

And that was the question she wanted to ask more than anything, and the one that filled her throat with a thick, heavy lump of ice every time she thought about it. "Yakko," she began, but was cut off as the ice settled just under her chin. "Yak —" _Did Plotz tell you how much trouble we were, that we were holding you back? Were Wakko and I too impossible to control?_

_Yakko, is it my fault that you left?_

"Yeah, Dot?" He had stopped flicking peanuts and was now gripping the bowl hard enough to crack it. His eyes were wide and childlike, as though he was only ten again and telling them about this show called _Animaniacs!_, that would give them some money and a place to live, where they could play all they wanted as long as they listened to the director and read the script. "It'll be scary, sibs," he had said, looking small and skinny in an oversized football jersey and too-small khaki shorts, "but we'll still be together, and I think it'll be fun, maybe." A wicked, gap-toothed smile had broken across his face, and that had been what made her and Wakko feel better. "Besides, there'll be _lots_ of movie stars on set."

She shoved away from the bar so fast that the stool almost tipped over. Steadying herself, she looked up at him and only saw a ten-year-old kid who had promised they'd still be together. "Gotta go," she managed, before whirling around and practically running back to the dressing room. She heard Emily call out her name and paused outside their dressing room. "Go talk to him," she said to her best friend, who was watching her with gray eyes soft with sympathy. "I don't care what you tell him. Just don't let him come after me, okay? I can't deal with people right now."

"O-of course," she said, "but how —" Dot ignored the question, squeezing out the back door and walking into the black parking lot. She tilted her head back and looked up at the stars. Well, what few she could see through the glare that the city threw on the sky. _I'll bet you can see stars in New York._

"Hey."

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't want to talk about it, Wakko," she said with a sigh.

"I know. Michelle and I are going to see a movie. You can come, if you want." He didn't say anything else, just stood next to her and stared up at the sky. After a minute or two he added, "You did great, you know. This hasn't been easy."

"No," she whispered, studying the skyline for a moment. When she had memorized her beautiful Burbank, smog and all, she held out her hand and he led her to where Michelle was waiting.

* * *

><p>Emily wasn't sure what she was going to find went she went up to the bar. The worst she'd expected was nothing, that Yakko had already taken after Dot. After that, she worried most that he'd be crying. However, she had not expected to see him building a tower out of peanut shells, whistling "Chopsticks" to himself. He wasn't beaming, but there was a small smile on his face that didn't have any of the sardonic amusement she was used to. "<em>Hello<em>, Em," he said. "Did you know that we used to create entire cities out of food? No glue or anything — we just had to balance everything. It worked really well, as long as Wakko didn't get too hungry. Once we made the entire city of Paris out of asparagus that we didn't want to eat and reenacted Disney's version of _The H__unchback of Notre Dame._" He grimaced. "I know, we're supposed to hate Disney movies, but we were _kids_. We just liked the dancing animals."

She had no idea how to react to this behavior. She took Dot's stool, seating herself gingerly and watching him like he was rabid. She would have to tread very carefully. She couldn't pry, couldn't say anything rash that would hurt his feelings. Her words would have to be very diplomatic. "Why are you happy?" she blurted out, cringing as soon as she spoke. Why hadn't she been blessed with the easy elegance and manners of the princesses? It would be so convenient.

Yakko didn't seem bothered by the bluntness of her question, however. Turning his attention away from the tower of shells, he met her gaze and grinned. She noticed that there was a very small gap between his front two teeth, one that was hardly noticeable unless she looked closely. "She talked to me," he said. He handed her a peanut, showing her how to peel off the shell without breaking it. "That looks like a boat," he said. "Now, if you take this little shard here, you can turn that into a mast, see? By the way, did I tell you about the time Dot and I took over the intercom system on the Warner lot? Plotz was so mad, but it was enough of a distraction that Wakko got to steal us a bunch of cookies from the actors' trailers. He still won't tell us which celebrity has an addiction to Oreos, though we've guessed almost all of them. . . ."

Smiling, Emily worked on creating a little house out of peanut shells and let him talk.


	12. The Senior Performers: Minerva and Dot

A/N: My betas have been extremely busy this semester, which means that only one of them was able to get back to me. Because of that, this chapter isn't as polished as the others, so I'd appreciate it if you guys would take extra care to tell me what you did/didn't like about this chapter! Thanks very much, and I hope you enjoy!

Thanks to betas Caramel Cheescake, Authoressinhiding, and L100Meganium.

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><p>CHAPTER TWELVE<p>

Minerva knew exactly what Jessica wanted from the moment she said her name: teeth clenched just slightly, dropping into an even lower register than her usual husky murmur, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth to over-enunciate the words. The mink had learned fast what these clues added up to, and she had mentally labeled this Jessica Rabbit's Serious Voice. And since it had been about a month and a half since Emily, Dot, and Susan had begun working at the Ink and Paint Club, and since Minerva hadn't done anything to warrant a talking-to in that time, there were only a few things that could warrant the Serious Voice.

"Miss Mink," Jessica repeated, refusing as always to let her voice curl up into a question. In the two years Minerva had worked for her, Jessica had hardly ever asked anything; she commanded, and everyone else obeyed. Only Roger could ever get a genuine plea out of her, which was probably why he wasn't often allowed at the club. _Wouldn't wanna ruin the boss's image, _she thought, climbing to her feet and making her way through the clusters of tables to where Jessica was waiting at her usual spot in the back of the club. She moved to take a seat, but Jessica stopped her, holding out one hand. "We'll talk in my office," she said.

_Uh-oh_. She had only been in Mrs. Rabbit's office twice: once when she had accidentally knocked her singing partner off the stage during a performance (she suspected that that was why Jessica had given her a solo act from then on), and once when . . . well, when she had gotten "promoted."

She took a seat on the far side of the huge desk, staring down at the polished wood with the keenest sense of _déjà vu_. She knew that the last time she had sat here, she'd only been about a year and a half younger than she was now, but she remembered herself as she had never been drawn, a gawky little girl with knobby knees and pigtails and no breasts. The last time she had sat here, she had been innocently wondering whether she was about to be given a raise, worrying about whether that snake-bitch Scylla had made up some complaint about her. (She never had gotten over that broken fang, even though it had been redrawn for free. Some people just couldn't forgive a simple accident; it wasn't like Minerva had _wanted_ to fling her into the orchestra . . .)

"Miss Mink."

Minerva blinked, jerking herself back to the present. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice squeaking. Maybe this _was_ about Scylla, after all.

"You were the one who arranged an audition with Miss Pohl. You're friends."

Minerva nodded. With each word, her hopes were dashed just a little bit more.

"And you are living with Miss Warner and Miss Irish."

_Unfortunately. _"Yes, Mrs. Rabbit." After that admission — which somehow made her feel like she had confessed something she shouldn't have — Jessica said nothing, flipping idly through the yellow pages of her notebook, pointing one impossibly-long, purple fingernail at something written on each page before turning, her expression implacable. She had done this last time, too, making Minerva squirm and cringe in the silence until she wanted to die of both boredom and discomfort. Just like the last time, she broke the silence after about five minutes, and with the same words: "Listen, I think I know what this is about —" _"If it's that Scylla thing, I'm really, really sorry . . ._

Jessica Rabbit had finally looked up, her eyebrows quirking high up her forehead. A year and a half ago this had looked elegant and imperious; this time it made her look surprisingly old. But maybe that was because Minerva didn't feel quite so young this time around. "Our three new talents are not terribly fond of their mentors — at the very least, Miss Warner and Miss Munoz are likely to kill each other. Which is why I would like you to help them through this . . . transition."

_"What kind of transition? Am I being promoted?"_ Minerva took a deep breath. "Are you sure? I mean, Dot and Emily are both really young . . ." Or at least Emily acted young.

Jessica's eyes narrowed, and she knew that she had crossed a line. "They are both legal" was all she said. "That is old enough. Now, this is a very difficult concept for new employees to wrap their heads around, and you will need to help them understand." _"I know it is hard to grasp, Miss Mink, but this is not negotiable."_

_"B-but I'm an _actress_ —"_

_"This is not negotiable."_

Somehow Minerva Mink was two people. She was Miss Mink, an unfairly-voluptuous creature who was so beautiful that she had no reason to be anything but shallow and conceited, because anything she wanted was hers with a flutter of her eyelashes and a flick of her tail. But she was also that skinny little girl, the one she had never gotten to be because she'd been drawn at sixteen years old, already able to make men faint without even trying. Both versions of her understood exactly what they were being told, and neither liked it. However, the girl-who-had-never-been still managed to think that somehow it was all a mistake. She had been a respected actress, after all. Her show had won _awards_.

The real Minerva Mink knew that nothing that had happened on _Animaniacs!_ mattered once it had been canceled for ten years. No matter what fanfiction may have hoped, their show wasn't coming back, and no one cared about what she had been. She was no longer an actress. She heard herself — past, present, and imaginary — ask, "And what if I don't?"

_"You can quit." _Mrs. Rabbit didn't say that this time, though. Her boss was watching her carefully, with eyes that were cool and calculating (as usual), but Minerva thought she caught a glimpse of warmth, or maybe pity. "You do not have to do this," she murmured, and for a moment she thought that one of those long-nailed hands was going to reach across the desk and cover her own. Of course, they didn't. "There are other girls who can mentor just as well as you. I merely thought that, with your attachment to these ladies, that you would be interested."

Minerva Mink had been an actress, once. So had Hello Nurse, and Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana-Fanna Bo Besca, The Third, and Emily Irish, the foil.

The only problem was that none of that mattered anymore.

_Washed up at thirty-one, gorgeous and broke, Minerva had straightened her skirt, looked up at her new employer and the proposition she held before her, and said, "Okay."_

Washed up at thirty-two, just as lovely but much more tired, she straightened her skirt, imagining legs that were skinny instead of shapely, a chest that was bony and flat, and said, "Okay."

_Okay._

One word could define your entire life. For a long time after she'd been drawn, that word had been _beautiful_. Then it had been _Animaniacs, _and in one crucial moment of her life, it had been _okay. _Now . . .

As soon as she let the office door swing shut behind her, Susan came up to her, her expression concerned. "Is it about us?" she asked. Of course she'd known; Hello Nurse had always been the smart one.

Minerva nodded, allowing Susan to hook a comforting arm around her shoulders and lead her back to where they were preparing for the next show.

Now, the word that defined her life was _Jessica_.

* * *

><p>Dot wasn't nervous. Not when she'd been called into Jessica's office, not when she saw Minerva sitting in the corner with an expression that was almost stricken, not when she'd been told that she had two options: become a "senior performer," or quit. Not even now, as the three of them were sitting on the floor of her and Emily's dressing room while Minerva ran them through the basics of what they would have to do.<p>

Minerva was nervous. Susan was nervous. Emily was terrified.

Dot, however? She was fine.

"Now, it's not that bad," Minerva was saying, pacing back in forth in front of them. "In fact, it's a lot like acting. The people who . . . pay for you" — Emily cringed, twisting the fabric of her pale lilac sundress around and around her fingers. Dot glanced at her, still a little unsure how this "best friend" thing was supposed to work. Babs and Fifi and the others were great, but she couldn't bring herself to call any of them best friends, or even close friends, so this was totally new territory. After a moment of consideration, she reached over with one white-gloved hand and pulled the hem of the dress out of Emily's grasp, straightening the skirt so it fell over her knees again.

"That's a nice dress," she whispered with a smile. "I might wanna borrow it someday, so don't wrinkle it." She'd need a belt for it to fit, and it'd be baggy, but Dot knew she could pull it off. She could pull anything off.

Including this . . . new job.

Minerva had continued, running her hands through the immense poof of blonde hair that made up her bangs. "They just want the character you play in your skit. So it's really just like acting, because you have to stay in character and . . . and . . ." It wasn't like acting, and they all knew it.

"I suppose you're right," Susan said, holding her hands out to Minerva. Looking relieved to have something to do with herself besides talk, Minerva took hers and pulled Susan to her feet. Once standing, Susan turned to face the younger two. "It doesn't seem like it'll be too hard."

Minerva shook her head, her hair flying to all sides in wisps. "It's really not," she agreed, too earnestly.

Emily and Dot looked at each other. Dot shrugged, adding, "Yeah, we can do this no prob. Right, Em?"

"Um . . ." Her large gray eyes flicked from one woman to the other. Finally she managed a weak smile. "I-if you say so. I can try."

They all had to embrace the lie.

What other choice did they have?

"_Puta!_" It was Aurora Munoz's special nickname for Dot. She stuck her head into their room, her hair already pulled up into the giant pigtails that had become her trademark. "Rabbit says I need to teach you how to fuck."

"Ugh." Minerva dropped her head into one hand, resting her elbow on one hip. "That was _not_ helpful."

Aurora looked confused, popping a stick of gum into her mouth and smacking it. "Why?" Her eyes landed on Emily, who had wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her knees up to her chest, looking aghast. "Oh. Oops." She shrugged one tan—but miraculously not freckled—shoulder and said, "Well, she'll get over it. Come on, _puta_. My dressing room." She disappeared.

Dot sighed, hauling herself to her feet and trying not to look like Aurora's words had shaken her. "You know, I think she's becoming my special friend," she joked, winking at Emily. "Maybe she'll want to join our slumber party at Minky's place. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Get out of here. Don't waste your energy dealing with her."

"What, me?" She batted her eyes, making them so huge they covered about a third of her face. "This kind of cuteness doesn't take any energy." She put a hand on Emily's shoulder, trying in vain to think up some words of comfort. Yakko would know what to say (and then refuse to say it, because_ "the exact wrong thing is always funnier, sister sibling"_). In the end all she could think of was "Good luck," leaving before her friend could return the wish.

Dot didn't need luck.

She was fine.

* * *

><p>Aurora had been useless, like usual. Lots of advice about how <em>she<em> always did it, chewing on the ends of her pigtails to look adorably nervous, twirling it around her fingers before they started. Dot's hair was always up and coated in styling product, and she wasn't going to try to become a Munoz-copy, anyway. Her own special brand of adorable would be enough to get her through. It always had before.

They had about twenty minutes between the end of the show and the beginning of . . . well, the next one. It was enough time for many of the non-costumers to drain out of the theatre, but not so many that the ones remaining looked conspicuous. In that time, Dot had texted Wakko about how she wouldn't be stopping by because she had rehearsing to do, touched up her makeup and hair at least three times, folded her gloves and put them away, and done a quick round of the room to try and spot any emergency exits.

Not that she'd need one. After all, she wasn't nervous.

Aurora had slapped a handful of condoms into her palm before leaving. "Make sure all clients use them," she'd said, looking almost like she cared about Dot's well-being for the first time since they'd met. Dot picked at the wrapper of one of them, flicking the shiny foil with one claw. She really didn't need to have her claws out, but it made her feel better, even if she'd have to retract them in — she glanced up at the clock — about two or three minutes.

_Tap-tap. _Dot had never heard a more tentative knock in her life, but it was still enough to make her start, flinging the tiny foil squares all over the floor. "Just a sec!" she cried, gathering them all in her arms and throwing them onto the makeup table. _Cute, _she reminded herself. _You're cute, and that's what they want. It's easy. Probably easier than_ Animaniacs!_._

She knew that. The only thing she didn't know was why her hands were shaking as she moved to open the door, or why her heart was pounding in her head hard enough to make it ache. Still, she managed to open the door without too much fumbling with the knob, and even strike a pose that hit the perfect note between innocent and sultry.

What could she say? Some girls have it, some girls don't.

The man at the door was maybe a year or two younger than her, a tall, lanky human with blond hair that fell, shaggy and wild, down to his chin. Freckles dotted his cheeks, forehead, neck, arms. . . . Every inch that she could see was covered in the little brown specks, even his ridiculously-bulging Adam's apple. He was no Mel Gibson, that was for sure, but at least he didn't look like he had a sweaty back. "Wow," he breathed, flushing nearly as red as Emily.

_"The younger ones, they'll try to seduce you. Let them — they want it to feel like a date, so play along. The older ones won't be like that. They'll be all business, wanting to get the job done as fast as possible so they can go back to their wives and mothers. But they all want a show. That's what you have to remember."_

So Dot let her eyes drop to the floor, curling her tail around her body so that she could stroke it, which had always been a nervous habit of hers. "Thanks," she mumbled sweetly, before letting her gaze creep back up to his with just a hint of wickedness. "Wanna come in?"

She'd expected him to make a beeline for the bed as soon as the door closed; that was what Aurora had said would most likely happen. Instead, though, the man took a seat on the stool where Dot and Emily did their makeup, looking overwhelmingly uncomfortable. He kept swallowing, the prominent Adam's apple bouncing up and down. "C-could we . . . maybe, just talk? Like, not . . . the rest."

Dot was flabbergasted. In all the scenarios Jessica, Aurora, and Minerva had tried to prepare her for (carefully explaining which were illegal), not once had anyone suggested that any client would pay for an hour of _talking_. Still, she knew how to roll with the punches; with her unpredictable brothers on _Animaniacs!_, she had thrown and received a lot of them. "Yeah, okay," she said, plopping onto the bed and leaning back against the wall. "About what?"

"I loved your show," he gushed immediately. "You and your brothers were just . . . just _hilarious_. And I always thought you were really cute." When she raised her eyebrows, he blushed even darker. "It wasn't creepy!" he insisted. "I've always been your age!"

"It sounded weird, but I get it," she reassured him, thinking that it was going to be a long hour. "What's your name?"

He slapped his thigh, apparently frustrated with himself. "Oh, right! I'm Benny. Just a waiter at the Pastel Garden." He glanced down at his knees. "Nothing really special."

_He's like Emily's twin. _If Benny had been her friend's client, she knew they would have sat there in stammering near-silence, staring at the ground, beet-red and terrified. Luckily for them both, Dot had always been naturally charming. "I think that's pretty cool," she said, to be polite.

He could tell that she was lying, and rewarded her good manners with a small, crooked smile. "It's nothing close to being a star like you," he said, looking around at the dressing room. "This is nicer than my _apartment_."

"Nicer than mine, too," she said with a laugh. There was silence, until finally Dot had to ask: "Why did you pay to come _talk_ to me? I mean, that can't have been cheap —"

"It cost me about half a week's pay," he interjected helpfully. "But I saw you one night, and I've been waiting for you to be available so I could meet you in person."

"But why couldn't you have come up and talked to me after the show? People do that all the time." Of course, the only people who'd ever tried to talk to her were her brothers, but she knew it happened to the other girls a lot.

"_You?_" he said with a snort. "Do you honestly think I could just come up to someone as glamorous or talented or . . . or _pretty_ as you and just talk like it was nothing? Do I look like the kind of guy who could do that?" Benny had a point; he didn't exactly look like the outgoing type. If anything, he acted a little like those nerds on _The Big Bang Theory_ (she hated that show; the blonde girl was almost as cute as her), who played video games and read comics all the time.

She shrugged. "You're talking to me right now, and not doing too badly." In fact, it was almost cute, and more than a little funny.

Clearly that hadn't occurred to him. His face drained of color, making his freckles stand out even more. "You're right," he murmured, his hazel eyes widening. Emboldened by this realization, he blurted out, "W-would you like to go on a date with me?"

It wasn't often that Dot Warner was at a loss for words. With a brother who talked as much as Yakko, she couldn't afford to be. But she knew that she definitely wasn't supposed to date clients — if Benny even counted as that. Besides, he was a _human, _which made things even more complicated.

_Oh, come on, sis, _she could practically hear Yakko saying. _From what our darling brother has told me, you've dated worse. Montana Max, anyone? _(Admittedly that had only been for two weeks in high school, and only because he'd had a really nice car, but Yakko hadn't let her forget it.)

The figment of her imagination had a point. So she flashed him her loveliest smile, turning her head so that her cutie mark was more visible. "I'd like that," she said, amused at how embarrassed and pleased her answer had made him, since he clearly had been expecting a refusal.

"Wow. That's . . . that's wonderful! What about tonight? When you get off work? No, that's too soon . . . What if you picked a time? But I don't want to put pressure on you . . ."

It was clear that he would go on like this for a while if she didn't stop him. "Tomorrow would work," she said. "Monday's one of my nights off."

"I know," he responded immediately. "I mean . . . unless that's creepy."

Dot shook her head, laughing. "After all the stalking I did to Mel Gibson?" she teased. "Just tell me you don't know where I live or anything."

"No, of course not!" He took out a pen and she found a scrap of paper in one of the dresser drawers, writing down Minerva's address and phone number. Benny took the paper like it was a magical artifact, his gaze switching from it to her in awe. "Thanks," he said softly. "I mean . . . I'll call you." He turned to leave.

"Wait, Ben!" She glanced at the clock above her mirror. "You still have like forty minutes. We could keep talking, if you wanted. I mean, since you paid for the time and everything."

"Really?" A huge smile spread across his face. "Okay!" He bounded back into his chair, looking like a puppy with his eagerness and too-long limbs. He practically _was_ a cartoon, she thought with amusement. And if she told this story to either of her brothers, he would be; it was the only way she could keep Yakko from giving her a hard time.

_Boys. Go fig._


	13. The Senior Performers: Hello Nurse

A/N: This one is . . . inappropriate. But then again, that's kind of to be expected at this point. For anyone who doesn't like this kind of thing in their _Animaniacs!_ fanfiction and hasn't considered the previous chapters (or the summary) enough warning as to where this is going, you might want to leave now. I don't think this is particularly M-worthy, but it's closer than I've ever gotten, and it's darker than I thought I'd go with this fic. (Okay, not really, but I keep surprising myself with these chapters, especially when I remember, "Wait, I'm writing about _what_ show again?" I really hope it's not OOC, but if it is, I want you to tell me immediately and mercilessly.)

Hope anyone who's brave enough to read on enjoys this!

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><p>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<p>

Hello Nurse had been drawn as Susan Pohl in 1990, a seventeen-year-old girl with wide blue eyes and full, pouty lips that looked like they belonged on a girl from fifty years earlier. She had been drawn as an extra for one of the episodes of _A Pup Named Scooby-Doo_. Her animator had been a toon, a rare but steadily growing phenomenon as more cartoons realized that there were only so many actors in the world, and many animation studios wanted a brand-new cast for every production. Ricardo Fox was already well-known for making the perfect face for any art style, and each of his characters was considered a work of art.

Susan had been different, though. Most studios had to grovel at Fox's clawed feet with a sackful of York Peppermint Patties (his favorite candy) and a very hefty check, but in the summer 1990, Fox's brother-in-law called upon a favor. His animator had quit before finishing the most recent episode, they just needed fifty more extras to have the entire cast drawn, there was no one in town who had the "Scooby-Doo look," and they were desperate. This studio head, the brother of Ricardo's wife, had shoved the money into his hands and reminded him that he had never told his sister about Fox's many infidelities, which were known to almost everyone in show business but hardly anyone out of it.

So, with the "favor" that looked more like blackmail hanging over his head, the brilliant Ricardo Fox sat down with an almost-full bottle of gin and a stack of paper and scratched out forty-nine extras in about an hour. Then, leaning back with the empty bottle in his hand, gazing blearily at the final sheet of paper, he drew Susan, scrawling her name carefully over her head before mailing her and the rest to his brother-in-law with the almost-illegible message: "These are your fifty talking heads. Next time you want to call upon a favor, try asking for something that requires real talent." "Real" had been underscored with three crooked lines.

Despite being dashed off in a drunken stupor, Ricardo's extras were still the work of a brilliant artist, and they matched the look the studio had wanted perfectly. That was, except for Susan.

One of her first memories was of lining up on a stage with the other extras, peering through the brilliant lights to try and see the people sitting in front of her. One of those people was calling names off a sheet of paper, and the girls on either side of her would disappear into Makeup or Costumes when their names were called, until finally she was the only one standing onstage.

"Holy hell," one of the executives said. "You sure this is one of Fox's?"

"Of course I'm sure," another man replied testily. "I've had to watch him show off his 'creations' at family reunions for the last seven years. This is definitely one of his." There was a long moment of silence, and Susan felt the eyes trained on her face.

"It's the lips," a woman said, her voice clipped and businesslike. "They're too . . . puffy. They don't fit her face."

"Come here . . ." — there was a pause as the second man rifled through his papers — "Uh, Susan." She took a few shaky steps forward; learning to walk was difficult enough, let alone trying to do it in a fully-formed seventeen-year-old body. Again she waited in silence as they all stared at her. "Can we work with this?" he finally asked.

"We don't have a choice," the woman said with a loud sigh. "We're already over-budget and there isn't a lot of time. Just stick her in the back."

The other extras hadn't been formed with the care and attention to detail that had made Ricardo famous. As a consequence, they were all very uninteresting-looking, and would be doomed to spend the rest of their lives as extras in shows quite like this. But Susan Pohl, with her lips that were just large enough to be unsettling but not enough to be comical, wouldn't be able to get another job. The studio head had told her as much in a moment of compassion, shaking his head as he looked down at her.

"You just don't look right," he said, putting one large hand on her shoulder. "Wish that wasn't the way of it, but there you go." After the shooting was over, he slipped an extra two hundred dollars into her paycheck with "Good luck, kid" scribbled across the bottom.

The extra money was just enough to pay for the plane ticket and taxi ride it took to get to Ricardo's studio. When he opened the door to see a small teenage toon standing on his porch, she decided to get her pitch out in the open before he could say anything. "I need you to fix me," she blurted out.

His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked sober enough as he studied her. "You're one of mine," he said slowly, stretching out one red-furred paw to stroke her cheek. Then his expression shifted as he took in her face, and his fingers brushed her lips. "These aren't right."

She shook her head, swallowing hard as she held out the bag of York Peppermint Patties she'd bought at the airport. "Please fix me," she whispered, realizing fully just how hopeless her future would be if she couldn't get a single acting job.

His expression softened, and he opened the door wider so that she could come in. "Take off your clothes," he instructed, "and sit on that stool." Susan stared at him in horror, but his tone was all business and she had no other choice, so she perched uneasily on the faux-wood stool, naked and vulnerable as his eyes raked over her body. "Those lips really are a problem," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "but I like them." There was silence as he pondered her.

They were both startled by the sound of an explosion behind her. She jerked around and almost fell off her seat, but Fox's hand closed around her upper arm and held her steady. "It's just the TV," he said, grabbing the remote next to her to turn it off. But something on the screen stopped him, and she heard the words and voice that every toon in the world was familiar with:

_"Ehhhh, what's up, doc?"_

A smile spread across his face, vulpine in more ways than the obvious. "I have an idea," he told her, grabbing his box of pencils. "Just sit still." As he ran his pencils and paints down her body, across her face, through her hair, he talked. Ceaselessly. "Your lips are very nineteen-forties Barbie," he said as he erased her legs and drew them again, longer, "and all you need is a body to match it. A little bit of Warner Brothers" — she felt her eyelashes thicken and her nose shrink — "and just a hint of Jessica Rabbit" — a flick of the wrist and her breasts tripled in size — "and now all that's missing is some color." He knelt down and picked up one of her newly-drawn legs, shading them in so that they matched the rest of her skin. Behind them, Bugs Bunny continued to spout one-liners amid a backdrop of noises like "BONK!" and "SPROINGGG!"

"Bugs was my mentor," Ricardo continued, adding a hint of pink to her knee before moving on to the other leg. "Taught me everything I know about cartoons. At least, that's what I tell anyone who asks. My number-one advice to you is this: People will believe whatever they want to, so just tell them what they wish to hear." He chuckled, standing once again and adding the finishing touches to her face. "And if you're going to lie about having a famous cartoon guru, make sure it's someone so famous they won't remember who they mentored and when. That's not part of my advice, but it's still good to remember. Ah, that's it." He stepped away from her, taking her newly-drawn hand and leading her to a full-length mirror. "Look at you."

Susan looked beautiful — and more importantly, she looked _marketable_. She knew she should have been thrilled, awed, or even slightly offended by her new self, but somehow all she could think was, _At least the lips don't look stupid anymore. _"Thank you," she said quietly, still trying to grasp the fact that she looked nothing like the girl who had walked into the studio only an hour ago. She wiped her hands against her bare thighs, which felt completely alien to her. They were too full, too long . . . "How much?" she asked, glancing around for her purse, which held the money she had made from her first and only job.

"For one of my girls? Not a penny." She was just about to insist when she caught his eyes in the mirror. That crafty smile was back, and before she could speak one hand turned her around while the other tilted her chin up so she could meet his face. "Look at you," he repeated. "You really are something. Definitely worth all that hard work I put into you." He leaned forward until she could smell the stale mint and old chocolate on his breath, and she knew exactly what he was asking.

Most animators considered it obscene to sleep with their creations; many thought of their cartoons as children, or more often Frankenstein-esque _things _that have no real sexuality whatsoever. But with genius often comes some level of depravity, and Ricardo Fox was certainly a genius.

Afterwards Susan squeezed herself back into clothes that no longer had a chance of fitting correctly, unsure what to do or say. Her creator lounged on the floor, his eyes closed and a satisfied smile on his face. For a moment she just considered slinking out without a word, but then she remembered his number-one advice.

Clutching her coat to her chest, she said, "Thank you very much. You've been very kind." Without waiting for a reply, Susan Pohl, the one of the most improbably-proportioned seventeen-year-olds in toon history, turned her back forever on the toon that had made her.

* * *

><p>That had been Susan's first experience with prostitution, and she'd always assumed that it would be her only. But life has a funny way of messing with people — and toons — and seventeen years later, she found herself sitting on an old bed that smelled like mothballs with her best friend's arm wrapped around her shoulders.<p>

Minerva Mink was the only one who knew her story. She was the only one who could really understand it.

"You'll be fine," she was trying to say. "Just don't think about that Fox bas —" Realizing what she was about to say, she snapped her mouth shut and tried her best to find another topic of conversation.

"It doesn't matter," Susan told her with a smile. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him since she'd been promoted. It was impossible not to.

There was a sharp rap on the door, a quick code that they recognized as Jessica telling them to get ready. "I'll keep an eye on your room," Minerva promised, climbing to her feet and straightening her threadbare red dress. "I'll come over as soon as we have a break, okay?"

Her nervousness was contagious, and Susan found herself unable to stop smoothing the skirt of her ridiculous cheerleader outfit. She clenched her hands into fists and managed a smile that was no less strained. "Thanks, Minky," she said, wanting to say or do something that proved they were in this together, that they were still inseparable friends despite the fact that everything was about to change in just a few moments. So preoccupied was she with what was coming that she didn't notice her friend slip out of the room. She wasn't brought back to herself until a few seconds later, when someone knocked on the door.

He was a fox. She almost burst out laughing when she opened the door, because it was just too perfect. His fur wasn't red, but blue, and he had a toupee that was too thick and black to be taken seriously, but he had those same beady eyes, those same yellowish teeth poking out beneath his lips. "Let's get started, shall we?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of her bed and fiddling with his hair prissily.

Susan was taken aback by his abruptness, even though she'd been warned that this might happen. "What's your name?" she asked, trying to give some shred of normalcy to this situation.

The fox sighed, looking up at her like she was stupid. "We're not going to do that. Now get over here."

As soon as it was over (which didn't take that long), he pulled his clothes on, jerked his chin in her direction — she assumed that was his way of saying "goodbye" or "thank you" — and left, leaving her suddenly with fifteen minutes of free time.

Minerva opened the door immediately at Susan's knock, a blanket wrapped around her chest and hips. "Are you okay?" she demanded, moving as if to pull her into a hug before thinking better of it and tightening her sheet around herself. "Come in. I knew you'd be here — Jessica said your first guy only paid for a half hour." Once they were both seated, she sat, staring at her expectantly.

Susan suspected that this was the point where she was to come up with something to say. But what _was_ there, really? "Nothing's changed," she finally said. "I don't feel any different." With that statement, all the energy left her body and she rested her head against Minerva's shoulder, letting herself be comforted.

The world hadn't ended. It seemed impossible to imagine, but she was fine. And suddenly she realized fully what Minky had meant when she said that the worst part was how _okay_ she felt afterward. She imagined feeling that way every day and not being able to talk about it.

"I'm sorry I never understood," she said into Minerva's fur.

Minerva laughed quietly. "I'm sorry you do now."

"No, don't be. I'll be all right." Surprised at how true that was — would she never get used to how easy this was for her to get used to? — Susan pushed herself into a sitting position, straightening her hair and glancing at the clock. They had ten minutes. "But do you want to know what was absolutely crazy? The guy I — you know, _had_ . . . I think he might have been on _Animaniacs!_"

* * *

><p>AN: Special thanks to Authoressinhiding, who beta-read both parts of this chapter and gave beautifully specific and helpful comments, and to Caramel Cheescake, who is always my faithful reader. :)


	14. The Senior Performers: Emily

CHAPTER THIRTEEN, PART 2

"Head up. Chest out. No, head back down again, that didn't look right. Pout your lips more. Can you make your eyes any wider?"

Emily tried to follow these orders, but they were coming incredibly fast. Dot, who was laying on the dressing-room floor — supposedly she was just there because the carpet smelled less like puke in here than anywhere else in the Inky, but Emily suspected that this might be her idea of moral support — lifted her head and pulled her sleep mask off. "Is he going to be photographing her, Suzy? Because all the guys _I've_ known just wanted to have sex."

Suzy's lips pursed. "She has to look right," she muttered petulantly, taking Emily's hair in her hands and tugging at it. Emily winced, but said nothing. "We're selling a product here. This is the product." She fluffed the handfuls of black curls she clutched and arranged them neatly over one shoulder. "Now don't move, because that looks good." She continued talking, but the words were like a hazy fog. _I'm a product, _she thought, panic rising in her throat and making her fingers shake. _They're selling me._

Before she could do or say anything, Dot was at her shoulder, elbowing Suzy unceremoniously out of the way. "Look at you," she murmured, moving Emily's hair around and undoing Suzy's work. "You look so pretty." Her words calmed her down immediately, and for a moment she thought she was going to cry (though that would be fatal, as it would destroy the makeup that Suzanne had spent almost an hour doing).

"T-thank you," she managed. The truth was that she felt far from pretty — wished, in fact, that she was as ugly as she felt. Maybe then no one would want her and she could go home, play with Mister.

_Tap taptaptap tap. _Dot wrinkled her nose, trying to hide her anxiety. "That's Jessica. Which I guess means it's showtime, huh?"

Emily let out a weak groan as Suzy led her down the hall to her room. "Don't forget to . . . you know . . ." She widened her eyes and pouted, doing a remarkable impression of a Disney princess; once again Emily found herself wondering who Suzy's parents were. "Do your thing."

It wasn't ten minutes after the door closed that there was another knock on it. She let out a squeak of terror, then took a deep breath and pulled the door open. "Hi," she tried to say, but couldn't get more out than a weak puff of air.

The man in the doorway didn't seem to mind that she was standing there silently, her mouth hanging open. He looked her up and down, twitched up one side of his mouth in an almost-smile, and sidestepped past her into the room. "They say you're brand-new," he told her, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shoes off.

"Mmm-hmm." Emily swallowed, trying to will moisture into her mouth. She knew that she was supposed to be doing more — blushing, fiddling with her hair, actually _talking _— but her face felt drained of blood for once, and she couldn't figure out how her fingers were supposed to work.

Something in her expression stopped him, and he stared at her, looking shocked. "Wow." He held out a hand to her and she flinched involuntarily, even though there was no way his arm could reach; he wasn't the kind of toon that could stretch his body out. Pulling his hand back, he said, "They're not bullshitting me, are they? You've really never done this before."

She shook her head. That was what she was supposed to tell anyone who asked, at least for the first few days, but this time, at least, it was actually true. He walked over to her, and her knees buckled, dropping her to the floor. _This is actually happening, _she thought to herself, suddenly desperate to go to the bathroom. _I'm being sold._

He didn't try to take off her dress. Instead he knelt down in front of her, pushing her chin up with one strong, callused finger. "Are you scared?" he asked softly, which she thought was kind of a dumb question, all things considered.

This was expected. Emily had been told that many of her customers would ask that very question; it was just something her character inspired. She was supposed to duck her head, look up at him through her eyelashes, and murmur something along the lines of "I guess I am a little bit" before blushing and looking away coyly.

What she did instead was duck her head, then completely lose all self-control and wail, "_Please don't hurt me!_" before bursting into violent, decidedly not-sexy tears. The man, startled, hauled himself to his feet and pressed himself flat against the door like she was going to attack him.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he demanded. When she responded by curling up into a ball and crying even harder, he threw open the door and stormed out, calling for his money back.

She refused to look up until she felt the cold, hard fingers of her boss dig into her shoulder. Jessica Rabbit's face wasn't angry, exactly, but it was hard as she inspected Emily's blotchy face. "I'm sorry," she said, and Emily felt a surge of warmth at the words, assuming stupidly that they were directed at her. "I will be sure to get you a full refund."

This did little to calm the man's fury. "I thought she was _acting!_" he snarled, glaring down at her like she had chosen to ruin his evening. "Get away from me!" he yelled at the tall black waiter who was trying to take his arm.

"She is very new," Jessica said, and there was something of a reproach in her tone. "If you follow Mr. Bole, you will receive the money that is due." Hearing her irritation, the man backed down and allowed himself to be led away by the waiter. Once they were alone, she added to Emily, "You are going to take off this costume and go home, but I will need to speak to you tomorrow morning. If you aren't in my office at seven on the dot, you will be fired immediately."

Emily nodded, hiccuping weakly. "I'm sorry," she choked out, tears filling her eyes yet again.

That was almost enough to soften Jessica's expression. Almost. "There will be a lot of disappointed men out there," she said coolly, "and, surprisingly, one woman. You and Miss Warner have become quite a popular pair." She tilted Emily's face up with one finger in a gesture appallingly similar to what her almost-customer had done just a few minutes ago. "You're a very lucky girl," she informed her, brushing a dark blue fingernail down the curve of her snub nose, "but you are not indispensable. I would like you to think very hard about your future here, because I will not tolerate a display like this again." Her eyes bore into Emily's for another moment, then she dropped her chin with distaste, wiping her tear-and-makeup-covered fingertips on her dress. "Go home, and don't let any of the customers see you like this. It ruins the illusion."

As soon as she was alone, Emily slammed the door shut and yanked off her dress, stumbling over the suffocating amounts of fabric and almost snapping one of those awful heels she had to wear at all times. Her sobs had subsided out of fear of Jessica, but came back in full force as she threw on the first clothes she could find and staggered into the parking lot. She didn't care much about looking where she was going, and crashed into someone, nearly sending them both to the pavement.

"Hey, hey, where's the fire?" Hands gripped her shoulders, and she recognized the voice of Dot's oldest brother.

"Yakko . . . I . . ." Normally she would have been mortified that he should see her covered in makeup and snot, but she was so relieved to see a friendly face that she threw her arms around his neck, burying his face in his shoulder with renewed bawling. She felt him stagger under her weight, and with a grunt he lowered them both to the ground, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

"What happened to you?" he asked, trying to free his face from her hairspray-sticky curls enough to speak. "Are you hurt, Em?"

It all came pouring out of her in a rush: the "promotion," the constantly being poked and prodded and inspected for maximum sex appeal, and worst of all, what she had to do and the cold, calculating way everyone treated it. "I don't know what to do," she moaned as he tapped gently on her back. "I really need this job, and I don't know what else I could do but obey Jessica's orders, but I'm so _scared_ and I just wish I could quit! But I can't, because I won't leave Dot alone. Even if she says she isn't afraid, she really is and I've never had a b-best friend before and I don't want to be . . ." She trailed off as the arms around her fell away, the shoulder under her cheek stiffening.

"Dot?" Yakko repeated. His voice was impossible to read, but Emily was certain she'd just said something stupid. "She's been . . . _promoted_ too?"

Wincing at the way he'd snarled the word "promoted," she pulled back, sitting on her heels and wiping at her cheeks with the palms of her hands. "Yeah," she muttered. "Same day as I was."

He stood abruptly, his hands balled into fists and his gaze somewhere above her head. She was afraid of the way his jaw was clenched and his eyes were blazing, but she didn't know what to do about it. "Where —" he began, but was cut off by the sound of a metal door being flung open.

"Em!" Dot came sprinting out of the Ink and Paint Club, dressed in a pink silk nightdress that barely covered the top third of her thighs, holding an unwrapped candy bar in one hand. "I came as soon as I heard," she said breathlessly. "Just don't tell Jessica, because I had to skip out on my first guy — wait until I tell you about _him_, his name is Benny and he's —" She froze when she caught sight of Yakko, her mouth dropping open and her arms falling to her sides. The spaghetti-thin straps fell off her shoulders as they stared each other down, her expression stunned and his thunderous. "What're you doing here?" she asked, and Yakko's body stiffened almost comically, his eyes narrowing into black slits of rage. But still neither of them moved, though Emily could see them both tightening like wound springs being cranked beyond their limit.

She sat on the ground between them, waiting for the calm to break and the storm to begin.

* * *

><p>AN: So that's the end of this 3-part section on the girls' promotion. If you were getting tired of all the Ink & Paint Club stuff and girl bonding time . . . well, that will probably still be a large part of the story, but we'll be shifting the focus back to the Warners next chapter!


	15. The Aftermath

A/N: This one's a lot more dialogue-heavy than I'd expected, but I like it. And sometimes I have to indulge my gooey, sentimental side a little bit. I just hope it's endearing rather than annoying or boring. Unfortunately, this has NOT been okay'd by my betas, but I'm impatient and uploaded it anyway, so please let me know what works and what doesn't! I live to please you people (okay, not really, but it's part of the joys of writing), but I can't do it without feedback!

* * *

><p>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<p>

Dot had been in plenty of fights before. Thousands, probably. But she'd never had one with a time limit before.

She glanced at her wrist instinctively, even though they weren't allowed to wear watches while at work, then up at her eldest brother. He was puffed up like a cat, his fur standing on end, and clearly gearing up for one of their hours-long screaming matches. Unfortunately, he was just going to have to wait.

"Listen," she began, knowing that it was useless. "I don't know what Em said, but —"

As she'd expected, he interrupted her. "But it's not true? Please, sister dearest, I'm not _that_ gullible." His gaze fell pointedly to her nightie, which was falling off her shoulders.

Okay, now she was mad. "I don't have to explain myself to you!" she snarled, yanking up her straps. "_You_ never bothered to!"

His face flushed bright red. "This isn't about me."

"Of course it is! It _all _goes back to you, doesn't it? Why are you even here, anyway?" She tossed back her head, trying to simultaneously express her derision and glance at the clock mounted on the wall behind her. She still had a little time to tear her brother a new asshole. "You just can't stand not being the center of attention, or are you just a creep?"

He stared at her incredulously. "Are you seriously trying to suggest that _I'm _the one obsessed with attention?"

She knew that he had a point there, so she ignored it. "Listen, what I do with my life isn't any of your business. Just get out of here and —" _And stop pretending you care about me. _She managed to clamp her lips around that; she didn't have time to get into this, and she couldn't start crying here. Not with . . . however much time she had left. Besides, what would be the point? When he wasn't trying to control her and nag her into doing what he wanted to do, he was making them all look bad by turning tail on his own kind. He was clearly hopeless.

"I'm your brother, Dot."

Ever since Yakko had left, a pissed-off, hurt part of her brain had never stopped hunting for ways to get him back for it. Anger, like cuteness, was one of her specialities, and sometimes she hit upon a goldmine. She looked up at her brother through her extra-long fake eyelashes, letting the anger build in her chest. "One of them."

His body went slack, like someone had cut the strings holding it up, but that was just for a second. Before she had even fully registered the pain in his face, he had smoothed it over with cold fury, standing straight and rigid. He knew how to use anger, too. "And what does our darling brother say about —" A muscle in his jaw quirked. "About this?"

"Don't tell him!" she blurted out, her knees going weak. "Don't you dare."

"Why not? You don't want the brother you actually _respect_ to know what you are?"

"I . . ." She didn't know how to respond. It wasn't like he'd believe her, whatever she said; he never could. Wakko trusted her, and that was why she couldn't stand having him find out.

Proving Yakko right was bad. Proving Wakko wrong would be even worse.

She was spared from having to respond by Emily, who had been forgotten but suddenly drew their attention by sneezing. "Sorry!" she said as they turned toward her, cringing as though afraid that they'd unleash their rage on her. She was shivering, and that made Dot realize that she was freezing.

And that she was out of time. "I have to go," she told no one in particular, kneeling down in front of her friend and holding out the candy bar. "I'll come home as soon as I can, okay Em?" She looked up at Yakko. "Take care of her. And don't. . . . Just don't."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and ran back inside.

* * *

><p>Emily held the chocolate in shaking fingers, afraid to move but unable to stop her teeth from chattering. She had never seen either of them like that. Sure, they'd had screaming matches before, but this was so <em>cold. <em>Literally — the ground around them was coated with a light layer of frost that had spread from their breath and feet as they'd talked, turning the balmy California air into a circle of winter about twelve feet wide. And neither of them seemed to have noticed. _Warner Bros. toons, _she thought, exasperation cutting through her nervousness. _Go fig.__  
><em>

"Well." His voice made her jump, but the frigidity had gone out of it. He just sounded sad. "So much for progress."

Emily decided that it was safe to stand up, especially as the frost was melting fast now that the fight was over, and it was making her pants damp. Still, she couldn't quite find the courage to say anything beyond, "Um, I should go . . ."

Yakko smiled at her ruefully. "Right." He fell into step next to her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward. It was probably supposed to look defensive, but it just came across as pathetic.

She didn't know what to do. If he'd been one of the princesses she'd worked with, she would sing an uplifting and comforting song about new beginnings and positive thinking. If he'd been Dot, she would have given him a hug and then made a joke about his cuteness (and then run like crazy before getting tackled into the pavement). Somehow neither of those seemed appropriate, so she settled for a compromise, taking his elbow and murmuring, "There's always a brand-new tomorrow in the morning," which was the opening line to a song she'd sung in some made-for-TV movie once.

He stared at her like she had gone insane. "What?"

Okay, so it wasn't a very _good_ made-for-TV movie. Rather than explain the exact circumstances of those lyrics (the plight of Princess Mint Julep wasn't interesting to anyone, which was why it hadn't been a hit anywhere outside of Liechtenstein), she said, "I'm not very good at comforting people."

His eyebrows rose, and for a second it looked like his despondency had lifted somewhat. "No kidding."

"Hey, Dot's the only friend I've ever had. It's not like I've had a lot of experience." When the mention of his sister made his shoulders slump, she leaned forward to see his face — nearly tripping over her feet, as walking while meeting his eyes was not easy — and added, "I'll talk to her, though." Not that she had any confidence in her ability to convince Dot of anything, but she was desperate to help.

He glanced up from his feet and his mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "Really?"

"Yeah." She nudged him with her shoulder, feeling a little more confident now that she'd gotten some sort of positive response out of him. "You're a good guy." She paused, considering the number of times she'd overheard him and Dot screaming at each other (not to mention the whole "toon cop" thing, which was still so bizarre that she tried not to think about it). "For the most part." Then, realizing that that probably sounded too familiar, she backpedaled: "I mean, not that I really _know_ you or anything . . . but from what I've seen . . ."

He rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks. With that kind of endorsement, how could she not forgive me?"

"Can you forgive her?"

"Could you, if it was your little sister?"

"I don't have a little sister," she told him. "Or any siblings. Or parents."

Yakko gave her an exasperated look. "I'm asking you to use your imagination, sweetheart."

It was a good thing they were passing under a broken streetlamp, so that in the sudden darkness he couldn't see how pink she'd turned. She got it under control by the time they could see clearly again, and said, "Give me a break. I've had a rough night."

Suddenly everything that had happened came back to her. Amazingly, the fight between the two siblings had wiped it from her mind, but with those words it all swept over her again: the humiliation, Jessica's ultimatum, the overwhelming _dirtiness_ of it all. "I-I'm sorry," Emily said, raising her shaking fingers to her face to wipe away what were either tears or melted frost on her lower lashes, she wasn't sure which.

He didn't say anything, and she suspected that he'd gone back to brooding over Dot. But he surprised her after a moment by saying, "Hey, I'm . . . I'm really sorry about your family. That's gotta suck."

And this was the Warner that was supposedly _good_ with words. "It's all right," Emily replied. "Most Disney toons are drawn, so it's not like I was the only one. Besides, I don't really remember. I just woke up one day."

He was staring at her with such fascination, and she remembered what Dot had told her about their family: they didn't know who their parents were, but they knew that they'd been born, not drawn. During his early teens Yakko had been obsessed with finding out what had happened to them — "He would leave for like days and come back all quiet and sullen. That was the closest he'd ever gotten to being neglectful, though it was nice not having him breathe down our necks all the time," Dot had said — but had never found out anything. At least, she assumed he hadn't. _"He disappeared for almost a month, and he wouldn't talk when he got home. Scratchy, Plotz, even Hello Nurse tried to talk to him, but they didn't get _anywhere_. Then after like a week he was back to normal overnight: never shutting up, being obnoxiously overprotective, making stupid jokes, all that. Though he did get kind of weird. . . . He went on an anti-human kick and was even zanier than usual." She stopped for a moment, reflecting. "Come to think of it, it's kind of strange that he changed so suddenly. I guess I didn't notice because he was the same to Wakko and I. But it's not really that unusual. I mean, kids our age went through that phase. I never thought twice about it."_

So she told him everything she could remember about herself. And really, why wouldn't she? Minerva's apartment was still a long way away, it would distract them both, and she felt that she owed it to him, considering everything Dot had told her about their family.

The first thing she remembered were eyes. She'd woken up and rolled over, and immediately found herself staring into the most beautiful violet eyes she'd ever seen. (Now, maybe they were just beautiful to her because they'd been the first things she'd ever looked at, but in her memory, there was nothing more stunning than the sight of them, round and sparkling and flecked with blue and silver. The girl attached to those eyes sat back, settling into the chair from which she had been gazing at her with the utmost intensity. She smiled and said, "You're awake," as though that was a phrase that was supposed to mean anything at all.

But of course it did, once her mind had woken up a bit. Toons that've been drawn have memories written — you could say programmed — into them, so that they aren't just babies trapped in the bodies of adults. Some motor skills take time to get used to, but for the most part, they are ready to go immediately. Which is why Emily knew her name and the fact that this girl was supposed to be her best friend before she'd sat up for the first time.

"I'm Amelia," the best friend/stranger continued, reaching over and running a hand through Emily's hair, fluffing it until it fell in shimmering, wild curls to her waist. "Look at you. We could be sisters."

Emily was only a few minutes old (literally, anyway; she was physically and mentally a fifteen-year-old girl), but she knew that that was far from the truth. Amelia was tall, with long blue-green hair and a body that did not seem appropriate for a girl her age; clearly she was based on the Ariel-Jasmine model of teenagers. Emily was thinner than she would become later — in fact, she was positively waifish — but she was much shorter, stouter, and freckled. The only thing they had in common was that they were both pale as fish-bellies, really. "Your hair is teal," she finally said, when it became apparent that she was expected to say something.

Amelia's eyebrows drew together, wrinkling her lovely alabaster forehead. She turned and called over her shoulder, "Don!"

A giant of a human poked his head in, looking strangely familiar, though she didn't know why. "Look at you," he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled, and it hit her: she'd seen this face in the blackness before her waking, staring down at her with his face framed by warm, buttery light.

She was looking at her creator.

Amelia ignored this exchange. "Don, is she retarded? She hasn't said anything sensible since she woke up."

"I know you!" Emily blurted out, her mouth falling open as she gazed at her animator.

"See what I mean?" Amelia asked, throwing her hands into the air. "I think you broke her."

"And that's when I realized that we weren't destined to be best friends in real life," Emily continued, gratified by Yakko's laughter — a little weak, but genuine. "Though she faked it very well in the movie."

"Hold on," he said, stopping and turning to face her fully, "what movie was this?"

"_Sweet_ _Lily_."_  
><em>

Yakko's mouth dropped open. "I saw that!"

"_Everyone _saw it," she said, lifting her chin proudly. It had been her most successful film to date, and she had been quite good, playing her first ever shy sidekick. True, she spent most of the film trailing around behind Amelia, constantly in need of rescue and providing most of the one-liners. If she remembered correctly — and of course she did; it was only thirteen years ago — she had ended up the love interest of the villain's shy and awkward henchman-who-inevitably-turned-good . . . though that romance had been as false as her friendship with Amelia, it turned out.

He was staring at her, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You were . . . You had the same name, right?"

"Yeah. One of Amelia's servants."

_Ah!_ In an instant he could see past the extra pounds and the much-shorter hair, and it was like he was twelve again, staring up at a movie star (even if she hadn't been the star). Emily Irish, Princess Amelia Lily's best friend. "You were funny," he told her. He'd actually preferred her to the gorgeous, perfect, boring Amelia; Emily had been more real, not to mention cuter. (Not that he'd tell her that. He didn't need to give her the wrong impression or anything.)

They stopped outside her apartment building, unsure what to say. Finally she sighed and said, "I should probably get in there and wash this —" she gestured at her face, which was most likely covered in makeup and tears and who knew what else "— crap off."

"You look fine," he said, which was obviously a lie, but a sweet one. "Goodnight."

"Night." She was just about to leave when he stopped her, grabbing her arm.

"You promise you'll talk to her?"

Emily turned back to him, glancing down at his hand on her elbow, then up at the naked hope in his eyes. She smiled, covering his hand with her own and for once feeling like she actually _was _the older of the two. "Of course, Yakko. I won't let you down." Once again she began to go inside, and once again she was halted by his voice.

"You know that you're really hard to get, right?"

Her face filled with blood so fast that she became dizzy. There was no way he meant that the way she thought he did, right? Was "hard to get" even a phrase people still used? "Um . . . what?"

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "You have a lot of mood swings, you know? It's kind of confusing."

"Oh." So she _had_ misunderstood. To hide her embarrassment, she ran a hand through her hair, giggling nervously. "Must be Dot rubbing off on me."

For the first time that night, the mention of his sister's name didn't throw him into an angry depression. He just smiled and said, "Good. I can't believe I'm saying this, but she's having a good effect on you."

"Thanks . . . I think." And for the third time she was interrupted before she could get the door open:

"You have a good effect on her, too." Yakko didn't know why he was still talking, why he felt like he had to pour out all his emotions at one in the morning to a woman who probably just wanted to get to bed. Maybe it was because she was the closest thing he had to Dot. Or maybe it was just because he'd gotten used to her, and to pouring out his emotions to her. But for whatever reason, he couldn't let her go inside without saying one last thing. "Please . . ." He scuffed at the ground, embarrassed at the desperation in his voice but unable to stop himself. "Please don't leave her."

Again her mood switched, the blush gently fading from her face and a calm, almost tender look came over her; now that she'd mentioned it, he couldn't help but see a milder version of Dot's insane shifts in attitude. _Must be a girl thing_, he thought to himself. Not that he'd had enough real experience to know for certain what girls were like. "I promise I won't leave," she said. "Haven't you seen me act? I'm a very good friend." She waved goodnight and disappeared into the building, too quickly to hear his response:

"I know."


	16. The Funny Thing About Loyalty

A/N: I'd apologize for this chapter being an insane amount of dialogue, but that's what the whole story's been so far, so if you've enjoyed the previous chapters, you'll probably like this one. Apparently that's just how I roll. I WILL, however, apologize for its length. I just like it too much to cut it down, so I'm sorry if you find my self-indulgence boring. That's also how I roll. :)

* * *

><p>CHAPTER FIFTEEN<p>

Emily had assumed that Dot would want nothing more than to rant about her brother when she got home; if she'd learned nothing else from their short friendship, it was that the youngest Warner loved the sound of her own voice. Which was why she was shocked when Dot came home, tossed a plastic bag in her direction, and flopped onto the couch. "We got any food here?" she asked, putting her hands behind her head and crossing her legs. She'd changed into a pair of sweats that drooped on her skinny frame and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, making her look like a teenager.

Minerva, who slipped through the door still in her gaudy red dress, looked much older. "That depends. Did you eat it all?" she asked wearily, taking the only chair the apartment had and wiggling her fingers in Mister's direction.

The cat, who had been lying next to Emily on the floor, waddled over to his owner and rubbed his face against her hand. "I'll make something!" she said, scrambling to her feet. She'd become the designated chef of the house, once they'd realized that she could do more than stuff a TV dinner in the microwave (and Dot couldn't even manage that without the meal exploding into a ball of fire). She opened the fridge and stood up on her tiptoes, cursing her shortness and Dot's surprising appetite. _And she says Wakko's worse . . . _she marveled, finding two and a half eggs — _that _would be fun to clean up — a hunk of cheese, and three-quarters of a carton of orange juice. "Hold on a second!" she called, moving on to the cupboards with increasing frustration. Maybe there was some spaghetti . . . that was a comforting food, right? There had to be _something _she could give them. . . .

"Are you all right? Dot said that you had some trouble tonight." Emily started at the voice, smacking her head on an ajar cupboard door. Rubbing the sore spot with one hand, she turned to see Susan standing in the doorway. She smiled and held up a pile of envelopes. "Minky always forgets to grab her mail, so I've made it a habit to bring it up when I visit," she said, to explain her lateness.

"Oh." She paused awkwardly, then continued rummaging. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to find something to make for dinner, but there's nothing here. I should've gone shopping while you were all out, I'm sorry. . . ." She realized that she was talking too high and too fast, but she couldn't stop. "How was your night? Wait, that was stupid, don't answer that —"

Susan laughed, sitting on the counter. "It's okay, Emily. Really."

"No it's not!" Before she even knew it was happening, she buried her face in her hands, tears filling her eyes. "You all had such a hard night and I got to go home, and you're all be-being so nice to me when I should be being nice to _y-y-you_, but I didn't even m-make dinner for you and now I'm crying like a b-_baby_ and —" Unable to go on, she pawed blindly through the cupboards, feeling desperately to see if a five-course meal had magically materialized.

"You _are _a baby, Em." Dot's voice was suddenly right above her. Sniffling and wiping her face on her sleeve, she tilted her head back to see her friend standing over her with a hand on her hip. A small smirk crossed her lips, and she brought her other hand out from behind her back. "But luckily for you, there is a rite of passage." She dropped the plastic bag into her lap.

Reaching into it, Emily pulled out a shiny blue box which had the underwear-clad hips of a girl emblazoned across its front. "Bikinizone!" it read in bright pink letters across the front. Her breathing still ragged, she looked back and forth from the box to Dot. "I don't . . . get it."

"It's time to become a woman, Miss Irish. Jessica's orders." She tugged on Emily's arm until they were both standing, then shoved her into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and leaning against it so that Emily couldn't get out. "Order pizza, will you?" she said to Minerva, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. "I'm sure our baby will want some food when she finally enters adulthood."

"I don't know what I'm doing!" Emily called through the wood.

"Read the directions!" Dot shouted back. She'd never had to wax anything, so maybe it was a little hypocritical to call this a "rite of passage." Oh, well.

Minerva shrugged, then grabbed the phone book. Susan sat down on the vacated couch, crossing her legs delicately and shooting Dot a disapproving look. "This is how you show affection?" she asked.

"I'm not great at comforting people," Dot replied, stretching an arm across the room and turning on the stereo. "But she's not crying anymore, is she?" When she tried to pull her arm back, it went limp and she had to wind it into a coil and set it on her lap. "Stupid thing," she muttered, shaking her suddenly-boneless arm. "I'm not in top form today."

Locked in the bathroom, Emily stared at the box like it was going to bite her. Gingerly she opened it, pulling out a pile of wax strips and reading the directions aloud. "Okay, so I just put this on . . . and then pull it off?" She smiled. "That doesn't seem too hard."

Minerva hung up, rolling her eyes as the music started and Pussycat Dolls blared through the apartment. "It's the middle of the night! Turn that down!"

Dot held up her arm, which she had finally coaxed into its normal shape and movability. "With this? I don't think so."

"You're gonna make the neighbors call the cops again."

Dot groaned and climbed to her feet, strutting like she was on a runway. "_Now I've got a confession_," she sang, not bothering to keep her voice down even as she adjusted the volume on the stereo, her tail bouncing along to the music. "_When I was young I wanted attention . . ._"

"You're just going to keep singing stupid pop songs, aren't you?" Minerva asked.

Dot flashed her a smug smile. "Uh-huh."

"Great. Wake me up when the food's here." She yanked a couch cushion out from under Susan and put it over her eyes, flopping back onto the chair and falling asleep immediately.

"Poor grumpy Minky," Dot said, pretending to be mournful. "Can't appreciate art when she hears it." She returned to her place outside the bathroom door, clearly enjoying listening to herself talk. "I mean, it's like the story of our lives, isn't it? We're grown up _and _we're stars. It could've been written about us!" She paused just in time to hear the line, "I wanna have boobies" and glanced down at her chest with a sigh. "Well, almost."

She was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from the bathroom; Susan clamped her hands over her ears and Minerva was jolted awake, falling from her chair with a doglike yelp. Dot was unaffected, which wasn't surprising considering who she'd grown up with. "You're doing great, Em!" she called.

Minerva hauled herself back into the chair, her hair standing on end. "That was something," she said weakly.

"I know, right? I don't even think _I _could get that loud without a megaphone," Dot said, looking proud. "I wonder if we could work that into the routine somehow. . . ."

"Don't count it. Jessica doesn't like change, especially when that change could put people into cardiac rest and — Are you kidding me?" she snapped as "When I Grow Up" ended, only to be replaced by Katy Perry. "You have the _worst _taste in music!"

Dot paused mid-dance, her mouth dropping open. Before she could reply — she was torn between two comebacks, neither of which were very good — the bathroom door opened, causing her to fall backwards against Emily's legs and knocking both of them to the floor. For a moment they both stared at each other, then at the door. "Has that door always opened in?" Emily finally asked.

Dot shrugged, then helped them both stand. "So, how does it feel to be grown-up?" Emily replied with a whimper, sinking onto the couch. "Oh, don't be such a wuss," Dot said, rolling her eyes and squeezing herself between Emily and Susan. "It can't be _that_ bad."

She snapped out of her misery quickly, a mood swing that reminded Dot eerily of herself. "I knew you'd say that." Emily pulled an unused wax strip out from behind her back with a weak but wicked smile. "Which is why I saved you one."

Dot's face paled, her bravado gone. "Oh _hell _no," she said, scrambling back over the edge of the couch and toppling onto the ground on the other side. "I think I liked you better as a baby."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Knew you were all talk."

"Don't you think someone would notice if I had a bald spot?" She ran a hand through her hair. "I really doubt I could rock the Britney look."

"It'd be the bottom of your foot. No one would notice."

"Will you two shut up?" Minerva snapped, cracking one eye open and sitting up. She was never in a good mood after work under normal circumstances, and a combination of hunger, sleep deprivation, and the girls' bickering (all accompanied by Ms. Perry's tone-deaf attempt to shriek her way through "I Kissed a Girl") wasn't helping matters. "If the landlord wakes up —"

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Dot sat up, her eyes wide with excitement. "I'll get it!" she cried, leaping to her feet and sprinting to the door like a little kid. Upon opening the door, she looked the pizza delivery boy up and down and purred. "_Hello_, nurse," she murmured, wrapping her tail around herself seductively. "Wanna come in?"

The guy shook his head, looking confused. "Uh, that'll be twenty dollars," he replied, glancing over Dot's shoulder at the other women, as though they could rescue him.

"I don't have any money," Dot said with a smile, "but I'm _sure _there's some agreement we could come to — HEY!" She rubbed the back of her head, which had just been hit by Minerva's wallet.

The delivery boy lunged forward, snatching a twenty out of the wallet and shoving the pizzas into Dot's arms. "I don't need a tip," he said. "Have a good night." And with that he was gone, slamming the door behind him as he raced down the stairs.

"Another man chased away," Susan said with a smile. "Will you ever learn?"

"Whatever," Dot muttered, shrugging. "He looked like a loser, anyway. I think I only liked him because he was holding food." As she returned to the couch, she felt something sticky under her left foot. Lifting it up, she saw Emily's wax strip, which had been carefully placed in her path while she was flirting. "You're diabolical," she said, admiring the move despite herself.

Emily lifted one shoulder in a teasingly nonchalant way. "I've learned from the best."

"Fine." Dumping the pizza boxes into Minerva's lap, she plopped onto the floor, taking one end of the strip in her hand and yanking it off. Her screech was gratifyingly loud.

"Welcome to womanhood," Emily said, handing her a slice of pizza as the song ended.

"Please. I'm already a perfect example of ladylike femininity," she shot back, bending herself into a pretzel to inspect her foot, which was bright red and smoking. As she spoke, the next song began, booming through the tiny apartment with "_Bada-dum-dum-dum . . ._"

Emily's head cocked to the side. "What's this?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "A perfect example of ladylike femininity."

"I don't . . ." She trailed off, listening as Lil Jon enthusiastically shouted, "To the WINDOOOOWWWW, to the WALL! To the SWEAT DROP DOWN MY BALLS!" She bit her lip and blushed. "Never mind."

Dot toasted her with a slice of pizza. "Welcome to womanhood."

* * *

><p>Yakko had been sprawled across the floor with a book resting on his face when he was jolted awake by a knock on the door. He bolted upright, knocking the book into his lap and blinking stupidly at it before he came back to himself. "Coming," he called, wiping drool off the corner of his mouth and staggering to his feet. "Wakko, did you lock yourself out agai — OW!" The room was dimly lit, but he was nowhere near coordinated enough to make it across the room without bumping into the thigh-high coffee table, which was definitely going to leave a bruise. He made it to the door without further incident and opened it to reveal Dot.<p>

For a moment they just stared at each other, neither sure what to say. Dot crossed her arms and glared at him, like he'd done something more than open the door. A flash of anger tightened his chest, and he folded his arms and lifted his chin, mirroring her pose without realizing it. She was wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, "Turtle Power!" across the chest. _That's my shirt, _he realized, and for some reason that made him madder that she was here.

"Wakko's not here," he said shortly, glancing at his watch; it was four-thirty in the morning. "He's still at work, so if you've been evicted or something, you're stuck with me."

She huffed, looked like she wanted to say something, then ignored it and shoved past him into the apartment. "I know," she finally muttered, as though it was easier to talk when she didn't have to look at him. "I need a favor."_  
><em>

He barked out a bitter laugh, leaning against the door frame. "Anything for my baby sister," he said sarcastically.

Dot's claws slipped out for a second, but otherwise she didn't respond to his comment. "You and Em are friends, aren't you?" The question sounded like an accusation, and for a brief moment he worried that he'd gotten Emily in trouble.

Deciding that he didn't really care, he said, "Yeah, I guess." This conversation wasn't going in the direction he'd expected. She paced from the entrance of the kitchen to the closed door of Wakko's bedroom, pale and nervous. Picking at a loose string in the shirt, she pressed her lips together, took a deep breath, then snapped her mouth shut and kept pacing, until Yakko thought he was going to go insane. "_Today, _Dot."

"Fine!" she snapped back, irritation replacing discomfort. "She cried tonight. And she keeps trying to pretend that she's not really scared about tomorrow night, but she is, and it bothers me. And since I know she really likes you, I thought maybe you could . . ." She ran her hands through her hair and exhaled loudly.

He felt his stomach sink as a suspicion entered his mind. "I could _what_?"

She began pacing again, her hands moving as she talked with increasing agitation. "I mean, it makes me wanna throw up just _thinking _about it, but for some reason she has this huge crush on you, and you're a total asshole, but I know you wouldn't . . ." She stopped, her body slumping in defeat as she to look at him for the first time. The concern and protectiveness on her face startled him. "Hurt her."

Yakko suddenly felt like he was dreaming. From far away he heard himself say, "You want me to buy her?"

"Of course I do!" she snarled, breaking her gaze and resuming her stride. "You've met her! She's going to have a nervous breakdown, and I just . . . I care, is all."

This would be touching if he wasn't furious with her. "Nice to see you care about someone, at least."

"Oh, shut up! It's not like I've had a lot of people relying on me. I feel responsible for her, okay?"

He wondered if this could be the link by which they would be reconciled. Maybe once she knew how hard it was to worry about someone who depended on her, to constantly want to make sure they were okay, no matter what kinds of indignities she _had_ to suffer in order to do it. . . . Maybe she could see that this wasn't much different from his situation.

But then he remembered what had happened that evening, and outrage obliterated any sympathy he might have had. They were talking about prostitution, here. His prostitute baby sister was asking him to sleep with her prostitute best friend, and she probably would have asked Wakko if she wasn't so concerned about losing his respect for her. "Absolutely not."

"Oh, obviously," she growled, stamping her foot and looking like she wanted to throw a temper tantrum. "You wouldn't want to _sell out_, would you? Not when you have such _high morals_! If _only _I could be as amazing as you, but I guess I'm just _stuck with being second-freaking-best!_" With these last words, her voice leapt into a shriek, and she threw his book at him.

He ducked, snatching it out of the air with his tail and pulling it to his chest. "Like you're not selling out?" he shouted back, running his fingers over _The Complete William Wordsworth_ as though he could absorb the poetry's comfort through his skin. "Like what you're doing is not the _literal _version of selling out?!"

"It's not the same!" she insisted. "At least not everyone hates me!"

His lip curled. "For now." They froze for a moment, staring each other up and down, both struck with the realization that they were utterly disgusted with one another. The thought sapped Yakko of all energy, and the book slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a heavy _thunk_; the sound made Dot flinch. "Did you ever think this would happen?" he asked.

"I guess not." Dot didn't look like she wanted to let go of her anger, but she also looked tired. "Always thought we'd be stars together, even after the show ended."

"Would've been nice." There was another long silence, then he said, "So do you really want to do this again? The pretend-make-up thing to hold us over until the next giant fight?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "It's hard to maintain that kind of rage for days on end. We need these breaks."

"We're having the same argument over and over again. Honestly, I'm . . . _ahhhhh,_ kinda sick of it." She didn't respond, and he couldn't read her silence. Was this the gearing-up-to-scream kind of silence, the don't-have-an-answer kind, or was she just keeping quiet because she knew it'd annoy him most? Well, that was working, at least. As he stood there, watching her play with her ears and listening to the silence spiral into the approaching dawn, he realized anew what a spoiled, ungrateful little brat he'd raised. _For the love of — _"What are you _actually_ mad about, sis?"_  
><em>

"You're a traitor."

"Oh, great. We're here again, huh?" He threw his arms into the air, all his frustrated energy back. "It's not like I betrayed _you_."

"Yes you did! All I've heard from my friends since you left was how you sided with the enemy, didn't give two shits about the toons you'd known forever." Her face was earnest now — angry, sure, but like she wanted him to understand for once. "And if you didn't care about other toons, how could you give a damn about Wakko and I?"

He felt like she had dropped an anvil on his head. The most surprising thing, though, wasn't the ridiculous thought that he didn't care about her, but that, judging by the way her lower lip was trembling in a not-calculatedly-cute way and she was glaring at a spot a few inches above his shoulder, she honestly believed that insanity. "Dot, you don't get it —" he began, taking a few hesitant steps toward her.

"Of course I don't," she muttered, her gaze dropping to the ground as she backed away, heading for the door. "I never get anything, do I?" When he reached forward to touch her shoulder, she jerked away. "Forget it, all right? Just do this one thing for me." When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up a pink-gloved hand. "Or for her. Whatever. I don't . . ." She disappeared without finishing her thought, slamming the door behind her.

He couldn't even tell if that had gone well. At this point it was impossible to judge where they stood, and he was tired of trying to find hope where there wasn't any. _Though at least you learned something_, his brain offered sympathetically; it was sad when even the voice in his head felt sorry for him.

"We've learned my sister is a bleeding idiot," he said aloud, picking up his book and setting it on the coffee table. "No, it doesn't sound as good when you're not British," he mused, heading into the kitchen to make breakfast. After that stick of dynamite had been dropped on him, there was no way he'd be getting back to sleep, and Wakko would be home any minute. As he scrubbed up the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the mess, he continued the running commentary. It made him feel less lonely. "She thinks I don't care about them? Why does she think I even became a cop in the first place? It wasn't for my health, I'll tell you . . . I don't 'give a damn'?!" He slammed his sponge onto the counter and put a hand over his face, ignoring that it was damp and smelled of disinfectant. "How could she think that?"

The lock jiggled, making an immense racket as Wakko tried to focus his bleary eyes on something as small as a keyhole. Yakko hurried through the living room and opened the door, a smile spreading across his face as he looked up at his little brother. "Trying to wake the entire building, Waks?"

He stuck out his tongue, then let it hang there like it always had when he was little. "They were already up," he replied, his accent thicker because of tiredness and talking around his tongue. "Yelled at me as I was coming up the stairs." He glanced around. "Is she still here?"

"Of course not. We had our biweekly screaming match and now she's probably asleep in an alley somewhere. Y'know, the usual." Wakko nodded, throwing his jacket and shoes away and heading into the kitchen. Rolling his eyes, Yakko put away everything almost as soon as it hit the floor, listening affectionately to his brother ransack the kitchen and worrying despite himself that Dot really _was _in some alley. "You don't get it," he murmured.

_You were the only ones I ever gave a damn about._

* * *

><p>Once the living room had reached some level of livability, he returned to the kitchen, where Wakko had found a half-frozen tupperware container of spaghetti and was tearing into it without heating it up. Yakko sighed, leaning against the wall and searching for words. "Hey, Wakko, you never thought I stopped caring about you . . . right?"<p>

His little brother looked up at him, spaghetti dangling from his lips. When he shook his head, marinara sauce splattered all over the kitchen in icy globs, but Yakko didn't even feel it. "No . . . Sometimes your idea of caring is stupid," he said slowly, seeming to chew on the words with more care than he did his food, "but I always figured, that's just Yakko. And Dot, she's just Dot." He shrugged, stretching his tongue a few inches longer to get at the sauce-slush sticking to the edges of the container, then chucked it into the sink. "Bingo!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air (he never had fully understood the concept of the game, even after going to every one Scratchansniff had hosted). "Do we have anything else?" he asked, the conversation over. As far as he was concerned, everything was settled.

If only Dot was more like that. Heck, if only _he _was more like that. "I'll see what we have," he said, rifling through the cupboards, which were depressingly low on supplies. "We have ice cream, mayonnaise, and black olives."

Wakko's face lit up. "Awesome!" Catching the food with both hands and his tail, he began preparing what was possibly the most disgusting sundae in human — or toon — existence. "If only we had some strawberry sauce . . ." He glanced longingly toward the sink, and Yakko knew he was wondering if the leftover marinara would serve as an acceptable substitute.

"Hey, did your friends give you a lot of crap for me becoming a cop?" Yakko asked, watching his brother furiously stir until the mixture turned a sickly brown.

Wakko tore his gaze away from the tupperware container and met his. "Yeah, I guess. But it wasn't as bad as Dot's friends. I remember she stopped talking to all of them after this huge fight they had about you. She didn't talk much about it, but from what I could tell, they wouldn't stop insulting you and she started throwing hammers at them. Something like that." He stretched out his arm for a spoon, but stopped when he felt his older brother's eyes on him. "Y'all right?" he asked, looking concerned. "This isn't gonna make you yak, is it?"

Yakko laughed at the pun. "No, no." He watched as Wakko dug into the ice cream and smiled. "I'm fine."

* * *

><p>AN: Don't be offended if you like pop music: everything I have Dot listen to is stuff on my iPod, so I have just as terrible taste as she does. But come on, she totally is the type of girl to listen almost exclusively to Top 40 music. (Going back to look up the stuff that was popular in 2008 was a really weird experience, though . . . Talk about nostalgia.)

Also, I kind of like how we open and close the chapter with empty fridges and messy apartments. Proves Yakko and Dot are WAY too similar. (Look! A theme! Well, we'll call it a theme, anyway.)


	17. The Second Customer

A/N: Ho, boy. WARNING: this isn't M-worthy, but depending on the sensibilities of the reader, it could be toeing the line. In any case, awkwardness abounds, so be warned.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<p>

"Are you going back?"

Yakko shrugged into his coat, trying to look nonchalant. "Yeah. Might as well try and patch this sinking ship one more time, right?"

Wakko, who was tying his beaten-up sneakers, paused and looked up at his older brother. "She'll kill you, you know."

"_Ahh_, somehow I doubt that." He grinned and held the apartment door open for Wakko before following him into the lobby. "She hasn't yet."_  
><em>

He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it. Getting into these screaming fights every night . . . Where do you draw the line?"

_That's a great question_. "I'll let you know when I figure it out. Have fun at work." Wakko responded with a Gookie and loped off down the street, looking much younger than he actually was in the waning light (though he still towered over the oldest Warner, of course).

Yakko watched him go, a small smile on his face, before turning and heading toward the Ink and Paint Club. It was pretty crowded when he arrived, but Betty took his arm and managed to find him a table near the stage. "You're a good older brother," she said, kissing his cheek. "Dot's a lucky girl."

"Try telling _her_ that," he quipped, noticing that her hand was still on his wrist and that she was appraising him again. "Everything all right, Betty?"

She shook her head rapidly, her hair bouncing. "Of course! Why wouldn't it be?" Her hands flew to her cheeks and a look of alarm crossed her face. "Do I look all right?"

He assured her that she looked incredible. "How's Bimbo?" he asked pointedly, referring to her boyfriend of almost seventy years.

Betty's lips tightened, but she hid it with a smile. "Oh, he's fine, I'm sure," she trilled. "I mean, I don't know, I haven't talked to him in over a year. He took off with Nose Marie — you know, from that puppy show?" She sighed, resting her elbow on his table and leaning against it. "Men, huh?"

"We suck," he agreed, his mind frantically running through things he could say. He was great at talking, but actually _comforting_ people . . . Was "at least you're still hot" totally inappropriate in this situation? He finally settled for shrugging and telling her that she'd be fine. "You're a great girl, Betty," he said, "and Bimbo's an idiot."

"Oh, you," she giggled, shoving his shoulder gently. "I have to get back to work, but let me bring you a little something to drink — no booze, right?"

"Right." Once she'd disappeared into the crowd, he groaned and rested his head on the table. If only that was the most awkward encounter he'd have this evening. "I deserve a medal," he muttered. "Best brother in the world or something." Lifting his head, he surveyed the wait staff for anyone who was collecting more than tips . . .

His eyes had just landed on a tall, charismatic-looking black man when Betty reappeared with water. "Here you go, Yakko!" she exclaimed, plopping it down in front of him and slipping a napkin under it. "Have a good night." Once she'd shimmied away, he leaned forward and peered at the napkin; she'd written her phone number on it next to a big red smear of lipstick.

_If only_, he thought, shoving the napkin into his pocket and searching for the waiter with the gold earring and shiny dark head. Finally he tracked the man down, nearly tackling him into the bar to catch him before he disappeared into the kitchen. Panting slightly, he pulled a crumpled wad of bills out of his pocket and pushed them into the waiter's hands before he had a chance to chicken out. "Emily . . ." Damn it, what was her last name? "Uh, the big one. Not _tall_ big, but . . ." He held his arms out to the side a few inches and looked hopefully at the waiter, who had a name tag reading "James Bole."

Bole's perfectly-shaped eyebrows rose, his mouth twitching slightly before resolving into a bland mask of indifference. "Miss Irish?" he asked, his voice, clipped and smooth, reminding him of Jessica's. At Yakko's nod, he carefully counted and folded the money, then slipped it into his apron. "I shall be by your table with a card. There will be a time and room number written on it. This pays for an hour. I beg you to be discreet, sir."

Yakko reached into his wallet and grabbing the first bill he found that had more than one digit. "I want to go first."

This time Bole didn't try to hide his interest, but took the money and studied it. "This is very generous, sir," he said coolly, "but that's not how it works." He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows even higher (Yakko was beginning to wonder whether this waiter's forehead was made of rubber, but decided it would be rude to ask), his expression saying what his words would not.

"You're kidding, right?" When the waiter's face didn't change, he groaned and pulled another bill out of his wallet. "Will _that _do the job?"

"Yes, it should. Thank you, sir." The waiter took his money and smiled. "Enjoy the evening."

"I'll try." _And Dot better appreciate this_.

* * *

><p>To his surprise, the show was actually better the second time around, though maybe that was just because he was dreading the end. Still, it wasn't funny enough to completely keep his mind from straying, and every time the curtains closed to a roar of applause, he felt a lump in his stomach clench tighter.<p>

When Dot and Emily took the stage, it was all he could do to keep from shoving his chair away from the table and sprinting for the nearest exit. His little sister met his eyes for a split second; they were inky black and filled with an unspoken question. He nodded, and her jaw set before the music started and she leapt into her act, a mischievous smile crossing her face as she lurked behind Emily. The Disney toon's face was pink, but certainly no more so than usual. Most likely she had no idea what deal had been made behind her back.

The thought made him shudder and he realized that if this was going to work at all, he was going to have to forget that Dot was part of it. He rested his chin in one hand and leaned forward, studying Emily as though he'd never seen her before, as though she had no connection to the Warner family in the slightest. She was pretty, he realized with some shock. Under the stage lights (and probably with the help of eyeshadow and other girly things he would never understand) her eyes looked practically silver, and her hair had been teased into ringlets that curled sweetly over her cheeks and shoulders. Jessica hadn't attempted to disguise the fact that Emily was too pale, freckly, and chubby to fit in with the other performers, instead stuffing her in a dress almost as white as her skin so that she looked like a ghost with bright red lips, round and soft and gentle.

The effect was striking, and Yakko had to admit to himself that despite her other faults, Mrs. Rabbit knew her business.

Perhaps feeling his gaze, she turned and met it. For a second her eyes widened and the pink on her cheeks deepened, and he cursed himself for staring her down like a creep. Softening his expression into something less intense, he flashed her a weak smile. An answering one spread about halfway across her face before she remembered that she was supposed to be acting angry, and she bit her lip and returned her attention to Dot, singing her next lines with only a small tremor in her voice.

_Why _had he agreed to this again?

In any case, the act ended as the girls dusted themselves off, bowed, and stepped behind the curtain, both making a point not to look in Yakko's direction — though for very different reasons. He leaned back in his chair and rested his head in his hands with a sigh, waiting for the show to end.

* * *

><p>Emily ran a hand through her hair, wincing as the wig she wore tugged at her scalp. "That went well!" she said to Dot, trying as hard as possible to sound cheerful. "I mean, I think they liked it, don't you?"<p>

"Yeah. Good," Dot muttered, clearly not paying attention as she paced their dressing room.

"Are you mad about Yakko being here?"

Dot started at his name like she'd been poked with a cattle prod. "What? No, I don't care about . . ." She trailed off, striding over and standing up on her tiptoes to peer into Emily's face. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied, concerned by the abrupt change in attitude (though of course she shouldn't have been considering the many mood swings of Dot Warner). "Dot, are _you _okay?"

"Of course. Don't I look it?"

"Yeah, but —"

Dot moved on, talking over Emily's weak attempts to speak. "So listen, if anything goes wrong I'll be right across the hall And I have a mallet, so I can break the door down if I need to. Maybe we should have a code word, in case you get in trouble. Do you need a code word?" She returned to her pacing, muttering nonsense under her breath. "Potato? That's a good word. . . . Or maybe it should be something easier to remember. But what's easier than potatoes?"

She needed to snap Dot out of this before Jessica called them to their places. "Hey, you know you're really cute when you're worried?"

Dot froze, glancing at herself in the mirror. A small smile crossed her face and Emily knew she would be fine. "I am, aren't I?"

"The cutest."

"All right, then. Let's do this." She reached behind her back and pulled out a box of tissues and a bottle of Jack Daniels. "First things first, we gotta hide these in your room. You'll probably need them."

* * *

><p>It felt like Yakko waited at the bar all night after the curtain fell, but it was really only half an hour before Bole came up to him and handed him a slip of paper with a room number written on it. "I'm terribly sorry for the delay, Mr. Warner," he said, "but if you'll just go down that hallway . . ."<p>

"Thanks," he said, wondering how this guy had learned his name. He followed the hallway until it led to Emily's room and paused, trying to figure out what he was feeling. On the one hand, this was unquestionably sleazy, and everything about it was repugnant. But then again, he hadn't seen a girl naked in almost six years, and the knot in his stomach wasn't entirely from uneasiness.

Deciding it was not worth thinking about, he tapped on the door gently and heard her say, "C-come in." She was perched on a chair in the center of the room, her hands folded in her lap. She'd touched up her makeup and removed her hair extensions so that it was once again chin-length. She'd also stripped down to a thin white slip, the sight of which caused his breath to catch in his throat. When she recognized him, her tentative smile slipped off her face. "Yakko?" she asked, glancing around automatically for something to pull over herself. "You're not looking for Dot, are you? Because she . . . um . . ."

"Actually, I . . ." God, this was the most uncomfortable he had ever been, ever _would _be. There was no awkwardness like this. "I came to see how you are."

"Oh." She glanced around helplessly, then gestured toward the bed. "Would you like to sit down?" Suddenly her eyes brightened. "I have something to drink if you'd like. I've never tried it, but I hear it's good."

"I don't drink, but thanks." He sat down on the bed as she paused half-in and half-out of her seat, clearly trying to decide whether or not to sit next to him and unaware that at that angle he could see down her slip. _Hello nurse, indeed__._

Yep. This was without a doubt the strangest situation he'd ever find himself in.

"So you . . . came to give me a break?" She finally decided to forego the chair and sat on the floor, wincing as she did so. "That was" — she hissed in pain as she curled her legs underneath her — "sweet."

_Not exactly._ "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look hurt."

She blushed, looking down at her legs, which were stretched out in front of her. "I'm okay. It just . . . it was more painful than I'd expected."

Yakko felt the blood drain from his face, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. He'd screwed up. "You've already . . . ?"

"He came in j-just after the show ended." Tears filled her eyes and she scrabbled blindly at the carpet around her. "Do you see any tissues anywhere? If you don't m-mind looking, that is, I don't want to b-be any trouble."

Feeling like he was in a fog, he took a box off the bedside table and carried it to her. "Are you . . ." he began, but couldn't find the words to finish that sentence.

He'd _royally _screwed up.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I just haven't had a chance to, you know, cry about it yet." She took a tissue and pressed it against her face, trying to hide a sob that wracked her whole body. "I-I'm so s-s-sorry that I'm so . . ." She let out a shuddering breath and dabbed at her eyes, trying valiantly to regain her composure. "D-difficult."

"Don't be." He helped her to the bed and, because he had absolutely no idea what to say to her, looped an arm around her shoulder in an awkward half-hug. She rested her cheek against his chest, and for the first time he understood what incited such powerful protectiveness in his little sister. There was something so guileless in Emily, and so very fragile.

"Thanks, Yakko," she murmured, sniffling.

He swallowed, uncomfortably aware that in her distress her slip had . . . well, slipped down a bit, leaving her quite exposed. _Damn it, Warner, you need to get laid._ "Uh, no problem."

Emily pulled away, wiping at her cheeks. "You're a really nice guy, aren't you?" She realized that her slip was falling down and hiked it up hastily.

She wouldn't think that if she knew that he was painfully — if unintentionally — aware of the fact that her chest turned pink when she was embarrassed (her neck and ears did, too, but they didn't quite warrant the same amount of attention). "I try," he said with a shrug, trying to focus on literally anything else but the fact that six years was an extremely long time to be monk-levels of celibate.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she finally said, curling up under the blankets. "I mean, you must have better things to do."

_Like explaining to Dot how I not only failed to do the _one_ thing she wanted me to, but then ran out on her best friend because I couldn't control my hormones? _No, he'd like to avoid that conversation if at all possible. Instead he scooted back until he was leaning back against the headboard, crossing his arms behind his head in a passable imitation of nonchalance. "Not really," he said, sounding much calmer than he felt. "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time when Wakko and I stole one of Minerva Mink's bras and used it as a slingshot?"

Hey, yakking was his skill. Might as well do _something_ useful with it.

* * *

><p>Once the hour was up, he gave Emily another awkward hug and watched as she reapplied her makeup, her hands shaking slightly. "You're sure you're going to be all right?"<p>

She smiled at him, blinking rapidly as tears filled her eyes again. "Of course," she said, the lightness of her voice clearly fake, but admirable nonetheless. "It's just a job, after all."

"Just a job," he echoed, the phrase sounding even more hollow when he said it. "Take care, Em."

"Thank you." She hesitated, then stepped in close and pecked him on the cheek. "Seriously. Thanks," she murmured, looking mortified as she did it but flashing him a shy smile. Before he could reply, a bell rang throughout the hallway and she gasped. "That's the signal. Goodbye." Without another word, he found himself alone in the hall staring at her closed door.

He returned to the bar and ordered an iced tea, still reeling. That hadn't been at all what he'd expected, but it had somehow been even weirder. For one thing, she'd cried a lot, but she wasn't nearly as broken as he'd expected; he'd even made her laugh a couple times. And that kiss . . . he knew it was just gratitude, but it was ballsier than he thought she was capable of.

_I guess Dot was wrong_, he thought, picking up a handful of peanuts and stacking them in a small pile. _She didn't really need me. _He wasn't _disappointed_ about that, of course. It was just odd. This whole evening was, and though it was only midnight, he felt drained like it was morning.

"Good evening, Mr. Warner." Bole was at his elbow, a politely bland smile on his face. "I trust you've had a pleasant experience?"

The sight of his face, so inexpressive and yet smug at the same time, angered him enough to give him a sudden burst of energy. "Why wasn't I first?"

Bole's expression didn't change. "Sir?"

"You heard me. I was supposed to be first, and I wasn't. What happened?" His voice was probably louder than was appropriate, but he didn't really care.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Warner, but another offer was made." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of bills. "I would be delighted to reimburse you for the extra, of course."

For some reason the offer infuriated him, and his fist closed on his pile of peanuts. "I don't want your fucking money," he snapped, climbing to his feet and glaring up at the man. "I want to know why you would let some . . . some _creep_ get in there just because he offered you a bigger bribe!" His argument wasn't making much sense, but like the volume of his voice, that was a minor concern in the face of his confused emotions.

The man's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Sir, with all due respect, we do not make it a point to compare the moral fortitude of our customers." The implication was clear: _If he's a creep, what does that make _you_?_

That was difficult to argue, so Yakko opened his hand and let the crushed peanuts fall onto the bar. "You should have made sure the first was someone who cared," he muttered, hating that he sounded like a petulant child.

"Cared?" Bole glanced at the bartender, who was avidly watching the conversation. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Forget it." He slapped some money on the counter to pay for his tea and turned to go. "Good night."

As he made his way to the entrance, he noticed Betty staring at him from the kitchen. Her lips were trembling, but as soon as his eyes met hers, she turned and disappeared behind the swinging doors, letting them slam loudly behind her.

Another fabulous screwup. Lovely.

He was just at the edge of the parking lot when he heard her voice. "Yakko."

If there'd been any anger in her tone, he would have just kept walking. The tension, the disappointment, the overall discomfort and confusion of the evening had gotten the better of him, and he didn't have the energy for another screaming match. But Dot's voice was soft, almost sad, and he knew that meant he'd surprised her somehow. He turned around and gave her a shrug. "I didn't, in case you were wondering." He shook his head. "Apparently I didn't bribe the head honcho enough, and someone made it there first."

"I heard." She pulled her hair into a ponytail and took a few tentative steps toward him. "You sounded really angry."

"It's been a long night. Makes me cranky."

There was silence as they both struggled to find something to say to one another. Finally she asked, "Did you really mean it? About how you cared?"

Oh, great. _That_ was something he'd wanted to avoid thinking about for as long as possible. It had just slipped out in his pique — damned if he knew what it meant, if anything. "Jesus, Dot, I don't know. Of course I care about her. I care about you. I'm just a super caring guy."

"Don't I know it." They both chuckled, the sound weak and tired and oddly empty in the thick, humid night air.

"I really _am _sorry, sis. That I couldn't help."

"I know." She moved toward him, like she was thinking about giving him a hug, then thought better of it and backed up a few steps. "I should go check on her," she said. He nodded, and was about to leave when she said, "Thank you, by the way."

He turned and smiled at her, the first genuine smile of the night. "Anything for you, Dot." He watched her disappear back into the club, then continued on his way home, his heart shockingly light. Despite plenty of screwups, one thing went right, at least.

Against his better judgement, his mind returned to Emily, to her softness and her fragility and the surprising bravery that was buried beneath it.

Well, maybe more than one thing.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh man, this was really tough to write. Despite the fact that this story moves at the pace of a dead snail, I always worry that my romances seem rushed, especially considering the insane unpredictability of the Warners. Let me know if this seems too OOC or if Emily seems like a Mary Sue (I desperately hope not), and/or if you enjoyed it!


	18. The Intermission

A/N: I'M BACK! And it's only been . . . a year. Okay, who cares how long it's been? The point is that I haven't given up and I have more ART for you to appreciate! Or, you know, fanfic. Whatever you people come here for.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<p>

"Ugh," Dot groaned, collapsing onto the stool in front of Minerva's dressing-room mirror. "That was unpleasant."

"You say that like it's a surprise," Susan replied, leaning over Dot to apply fresh lipstick. "And it's not like you're a stranger to unpleasant . . . experiences." Her eyebrow quirked up and she grinned, meeting the younger toon's eyes in the mirror.

Dot scowled, pushing the stool away. "I think I liked you more when you were traumatized by me and my brothers. Less disrespectful."

The bedroom door opened and they heard an irritated sigh. "Since when did we make the decision to meet in _my_ room between shows?" Minerva demanded.

"Your room's in the center," Susan explained, checking her teeth.

"And it's biggest," Dot added. "And you always seem to get done first, so we don't have to worry about barging in on anything."

The mink had been in the middle of drinking a glass of water; at that, she spat it out all over the wall. "What do you mean by _that?_" she snarled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Noooooooothing," she said innocently. "It's a _compliment_."

"I'm sure it is."

There was a gentle rap on the door and Dot rolled her eyes. "You don't have to knock, Em. It's always open!"

Emily poked her head into the room. Sighing with relief, she flopped down onto the floor, wrapping her arms around her thick legs and looking up at them all. "Hi. Sorry I'm late."

"You okay?" Dot asked, as she slid off her perch and snuggled up against her friend's side, her tailed curling unconsciously around them both.

"Sure!" Her voice was a little high-pitched but otherwise she did a passably good job at sounding normal. "That was . . . unusual."

"He looked cute enough," Susan said. "In fact, I almost thought I recognized him from something."

Dot nodded, taking one of Em's shoulder-length curls (Jessica had insisted she grow them out) and playing with it. "Yeah, so did I. Was he on _Animaniacs!_?"

"Tiny Toons," Minerva corrected. "That weird muscly dog guy, right? Didn't he have a girlfriend?"

Emily sighed. "Yes, he did. He told me all about how she'd left him for some other Austrian hunk, Yorgen something. There was lots of crying." Then she gave them all a meaningful look, one that sat oddly on her innocent face. "Apparently his goal is to win her back by . . . training."

It was always so much more awkward when guys tried to be talented; they usually failed, but cared enough to constantly ask how they were doing. Still, there were worse things for a client to want. "That's not so bad," Susan offered.

"Well, apparently this Yorgen guy has bigger muscles than him, so he's weight training as well. And he liked me because I'm the heaviest of the girls." Her mouth twitched. "Halfway through he started _bench-pressing_ me."

Dot wrinkled her nose. "How'd that work?"

"It didn't. But I guess he was trying to kill two birds with one stone."

Minerva shook her head in mock disapproval. "Gee, I guess you weren't giving him enough of a workout then, Miss Irish. Jessica would be _very _disappointed." As soon as she'd said it she wanted to take it back. She messed with the other girls all the time; making fun of each other was one of the only perks of their job. But they all knew that they had to treat Emily carefully because she was so . . . different. As Dot shot her a look of pure venom — an expression usually reserved for when people called her Dottie — she winced and looked down at the floor, petting her tail.

But Emily surprised them all by saying, "Don't worry, that wasn't a problem. I might not like my job, but I'm _always_ a hard worker. You can ask Disney. Though if you do, try to keep the whole 'prostitution' thing secret. Might make things awkward if I want to audition for them again."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the room erupted into laughter — the kind of loud, unsexy cackling born from relief and sleep deprivation. "Did you just make a _joke_?" Dot demanded, lifting up Emily's hair to check for a mind-controlling chip or a Yeerk slug or something. "Did that dog creep steal your brain?"

Emily sat with her hands folded primly in her lap, watching their amusement with a small smile. "I'm known to be funny sometimes" was all she said. She knew that the others felt overprotective around her; Suzy had told her that it was a natural reaction towards Disney toons, and she was even more sheltered than most due to her less-than-active social life. In fact, this was the first time that she'd ever felt like anyone cared about her, and the fact that her friends went out of their way to keep her from getting upset made her happier than she could ever remember feeling. It made her job worth it, honestly. And it made her want to repay them for their kindness, so if being able to tell jokes was what they needed in order to be comfortable around her, then she could do that, easy. Despite what her sparse resume would suggest, she was a good actress, and she wanted to act better than she ever had. Besides, maybe their cheer would rub off on her. Just watching them laugh was already making her feel better, and while she didn't have much experience with comedy, she could see why her friends enjoyed it so much. It was cathartic.

"So will Muscle Puppy be returning for another workout?" Susan finally asked.

"Oh, he's scheduled weekly appointments," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's part of his training regimen now."

"Lucky you," Dot teased, handing her a glass of Sprite (she'd splurged for the brand-name soda because she knew it was Emily's favorite) and toasting her with it. "Gives you something to look forward to."

"And do I ever!" She stuck out her tongue as the alarm on Minerva's bedside table began ringing, matching the bell ringing up and down the hallway.

Back to work.

* * *

><p>"Waks, it's Saturday night. What do you <em>do <em>around here? Besides work, sleep, and try to see how many different fungi you can grow in the refrigerator at once." Yakko's fur stood on end in disgust as he surveyed the contents of said fridge, looking in vain for something that wasn't covered in a delicate layer of moss. "I don't think God ever intended for cheese to be heliotrope."

Wakko entered the kitchen behind him. "Invented it."

He raised his eyebrow. "Didn't know you were extending your talents to food."

"Yup." Yakko had forgotten that talking to his brother was like searching for water in the desert: what you found was the more delicious and nourishing because it was so rare. He and sister tended to prefer word-tsunamis that drowned everyone near and far in a gush of elocution that often as not meant nothing. "You're happy."

Jolted out of his thoughts, he turned to his younger brother. "What?"

"Your face. Whenever you're thinking of something that makes you happy, you get this kinda dazed look." He snaked his arm under Yakko's armpit and into the back of the fridge, and in one fluid movement had snatched the purple cheese and tossed it into his mouth. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"Right now? That I'm gonna throw up." When Wakko merely shrugged and licked his fingers, he stepped away from the refrigerator, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. "I was, uh, thinking about metaphors."

"Really? Huh." He stepped past Yakko to rummage through the fridge again. "Ever think you should've become an English teacher or something? Seems like you've always liked that stuff."

The question surprised him; he hadn't thought that this question, one that had hidden quietly in the corners of his mind since high school, would ever see the light of day. It wasn't something he talked about much, since he didn't want to seem uncool in front of Buster and the other guys, who didn't care about symbolism or post-modernism or any of the other things that he'd spent hours poring over old textbooks over. They'd never scour old Freud essays in the hope of proving Jay Gatsby's psychological repression or understand the knock-your-socks-off feeling of reading his first sestina. On _Animaniacs! _he'd tried to sneak in as many literary references as he could ad-lib and talk the writers into doing just one more Shakespeare skit. It had always been a part of him, as soon as he'd learned how to read, but he didn't think it was _noticeable_.

In the end, law enforcement had been cheaper — and more importantly, got him out of California. He hadn't thought he could get hired as a teacher anyway, since no parents seemed enthusiastic about having a toon at the front of the classroom. Most saw them as little more than children as it was. Sure, maybe he could've taught a class full of toons, but there weren't many all-toon schools left anymore (toons in Washington were fighting hard for integration, with mixed results).

He didn't _regret _his choices, exactly, but it was just another reason to keep his head down and make the humans as happy as he could. Part of him hoped that by proving what a responsible and normal he was, he could . . . do something. It was irrational, of course, because he could never change careers; the human situation was just as bad, if not worse, than it'd been when he'd started college, and now toons who were old enough to know what his first job had been would tear him to pieces — literally. But it was a nice dream anyway.

Yakko suddenly realized that he'd been zoning out for almost a minute. Shaking his head, he gave Wakko a weak smile and said, "I don't know. I don't think that would've worked out. Probably wouldn't be able to resist dropping anvils on the kids who didn't appreciate _Hamlet _or something."

Sometimes he suspected that his brother was psychic. In a glance, the middle Warner seemed to sense what he'd really been thinking and understood that it wasn't something Yakko wanted to talk about. He just said, "Okay" in his always-casual Liverpool accent and let the refrigerator door fall shut. "We need to buy groceries," he added, then flopped onto the living room couch and flung his arm over his eyes.

"I can do that tomorrow, while you're at work." It was embarrassing how exciting the prospect was. God, he was bored. How did he spend years here with only school to keep him busy? Had he really forgotten how to have fun so quickly? "I have to hit the library anyway."

Wakko glanced over at the door, where a pile of books sat in a neat thigh-tall stack. "Weren't you there on Wednesday?"

Okay, he was _very _bored. But he wanted to pretend to have a semblance of coolness, as the older brother and all. "I like to read."

There was a moment of silence while both of them contemplated Yakko's utter dearth of a social life. "You could always spend time with Dot again."

He winced, rubbing his temple. "I need a break for a few days. Still have a scar from when she threw the piano at me last week." Their meetings were getting better; they could have normal conversations for entire minutes. Mostly it was just awkward, like he'd been away for ten years instead of only two. The things they couldn't talk about hung between them until he was too uncomfortable to stand it . . . which was when he usually said something stupid and made her mad. Hence the piano scar on the side of his head.

"What about the guys from high school? Buster's still in town, and so is Plucky."

"I . . . don't think that's a good idea." He'd actually seen Buster during one of his wanderings around Burbank. So far there had only been a few incidents of harassment, but to be safe he'd taken to wearing one of Wakko's old hoodies pulled over his head, no matter how hot it was. The rabbit hadn't recognized him — or if he had, he'd pretended not to — and Yakko had just enough time to disappear into a drugstore until he'd passed by. They hadn't spoken since he'd left for school, and it had been an extremely unpleasant parting. No toons had been thrilled to hear about his chosen profession, not even Plotz, but one of Buster's uncles had just been arrested for "unsafe zaniness in a public area" (which meant teaching his nephew to juggle anvils in the park), and Buster hadn't forgotten that incident. Dot's rejection had been the worst, and Wakko's had been the most surprising, but Buster had been his oldest friend outside of the family — pretty much his only one — and he'd always assumed their friendship would be too strong to break in a single afternoon. He'd been wrong.

There was another moment of silence, where Wakko either practiced his mind-reading or tried to figure out how to word what was coming next. Whichever it was, after a few seconds he said, "There's always that Emily girl. You've been hanging out a lot."

"A lot" was an exaggeration. They'd perfected a system of bonding that fit more comfortably than the one with Dot: after one of their shows, he and his sister would have their weekly spat, she would storm off in a huff and either vent to Wakko or toss dynamite off the roof of the Inky, while Emily would "coincidentally" come out to the bar, where they would talk until she had to go back — sometimes a few minutes and sometimes hours, depending on how long he and Dot had managed to avoid fighting. They never discussed what exactly she was going back to, and rarely talked about his arguments with his sister. Most of the time their conversations were about mundane things: memories of growing up and stories about being on set, mostly. He'd learned a lot about her (and even more about Disney gossip; apparently Timon and Mushu had something going on and were trying to keep it a secret, which of course made it the talk of the town), but the most refreshing thing was that, beneath all the self-conscious blushing and apologies, she actually had a sense of humor, and a kinda mean one at that. The fact that she was the only girl he'd ever met who laughed at his jokes didn't hurt, either.

It was fun. He needed some fun. But that didn't mean anything! He'd long resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't boyfriend material (enough drinks thrown in his face had made that clear), and there was too much weirdness there, what with Dot and the club and everything. Plus, she wasn't . . . he wasn't . . . He and Wakko had been over this already, so why bring it up?

"You're overthinking it," Wakko said casually. "I know she's not your type."

_How is he doing that?! _"That's not it! I just . . . I mean, she's fine. But I'm . . . you know, fine. Without . . . I don't need that. Her. I don't need anything. We're fine. Everything's fine."

His brother remained unconvinced. "You're gonna kill yourself out of boredom."

"Please. I'll be fine."

"A guy who likes words so much can't think of a synonym for 'fine,' huh?"

Unable to resist a challenge, Yakko immediately shot back with, "Swell. Peachy. Nifty. Dandy. Jolly goo — wait, you know what a synonym is?"

Wakko shrugged. "I paid _some _attention in school. Besides, you left one of those books behind when you went off to New York. I was bored and flipped through it once. Didn't understand most of it, but there was a messed-up story in there about a lady who gets dumped and sews up her . . . anyway, it was really gross." He looked over at Yakko, his expression a little admiring; nothing unites men like mutual appreciation for disgusting things. "You actually took a _class _on that stuff?"

"You kidding? That was one of the _least_ bad ones. There was this one where . . ." As he talked, he couldn't help but wonder why Wakko had bothered to pick up the book at all. If he'd been bored, he would've just started inventing a magic rice peeler or something, not try to read a book full of literary theory that his traitorous older sibling had left behind. So what had made him read it?

Maybe he'd wanted to try to understand a little bit of Yakko's mind. Maybe he'd wanted to have something to talk about when they saw each other again.

Maybe he wanted to create some small connection with his missing brother.

_Or maybe he was bored and saw the word "blood" on the cover. Geez, overthinking much? _The voice was probably right, but as the night turned into morning and they kept talking, he couldn't stop smiling.

It was nice to finally be home.

* * *

><p>"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's important. Have Mr. Bole deal with it." With these words Jessica Rabbit closed the door in her secretary's face, leaning against it with a weary sigh and inadvertently looking like a fashion magazine spread. It wasn't professional, treating poor Caroline like that. And she normally wasn't one to let a problem pass by without her oversight, but she needed time to think.<p>

She crossed to the desk and pulled out her ledger, treating the worn pleather binder with the reverence of a holy text. She flipped pages rapidly, running her finger down the rows of dates and figures, an incomprehensible language of dollars and cents with various intangible factors plastered to the paper with sticky notes. Minerva Mink needed a new dress, and perhaps a new act, as customers seemed to finally be growing tired of her _Animaniacs! _shtick. Right around the time that she'd assumed they would; audiences were _very _predictable, and Jessica could (and did) set her calendar by their whims. She'd need to come up with a new performance. Perhaps something with one of the other girls . . . Not Scylla again, but her newest acquisitions had done quite well during their few months here. It seemed she wouldn't have to let them go after all, and maybe that Pohl girl would complement her old coworker. Or Warner, though she was a hit with her partner . . . what was her name?

Jessica paused, one clawlike nail resting on Irish, Emily. Yes, her big risk had paid off better than she'd dared hope, and that meant action had to be taken. Should she hire more unconventional beauties? Use what few connections she had with the Disney corporation to snare more of their pure toons? What _was _it, exactly, that made her as successful as the other girls — more, in fact, than some of her most statuesque employees? Was it her weight? Her height? The freckles?

She flipped through her notes, hoping to find an answer to these questions. (She'd found that answers to almost any questions could be found in ledgers just like this one, if you knew where to look. The world was run by large pleather binders, and that realization had helped lift her from a nameless performer to the owner of a reputable establishment.) The money had rolled in, slowly at first but now with impressive regularity in both earnings and customers. Irish didn't have many clients, but they were a loyal and enthusiastic bunch. Very few one-time visits, except . . . interesting. She smirked at the words "Mr. Yakko Warner" written in Mr. Bole's small, careful handwriting. There was a story there, though not one she'd find in a ledger — well, not _this _ledger, anyway.

And besides, there were other benefits besides money to consider. Her eye strayed to a purple sticky note that said: _Audience appreciates diversity. Female customers feel less threatened. I&P looks like an equal-opportunity employer. _She liked the idea of improving the repute of the club; with the side business she conducted, the extra clout was an excellent buffer against rumors. But overall it seemed the girl was a niche market rather than a crowd-pleaser, and expanding niches was always a tricky business. Perhaps it would be better to leave things alone for the moment. Yet it would be worth keeping an eye on her. She could end up being very, _very_ interesting.

There was a knock on the door, and Jessica snapped the binder shut like it was a dirty magazine. "Is it important?" she called, adding just enough edge to her voice to suggest that things would be unpleasant for the knocker if it wasn't.

"It's your husband, Mrs. Rabbit." Caroline let her voice trail off there, letting her boss decide whether he was important or not.

Jessica should have been irritated at the unexpected interruption, and in a way she was. But it was an affectionate exasperation, and she couldn't keep the smile off her face as she instructed her secretary to send him in.

"Oh, Jessica!" Roger cried, leaping across the room and landing in the chair in front of her desk. "I know you said not to come by while you're working, but I just missed you so much and I wrote a poem about it, and once I had I knew I had to read it to you, it's here somewhere . . ." He began pawing at his overalls, muttering that he knew he had it and it was the best poem he'd ever written, even Baby Herman said so, and if she could just _hear_ it . . .

"Roger," she interrupted, knowing this flow of words would continue for hours if she let it, "don't you think you should save it for this evening? To be more romantic?"

He froze, his eyes widening. Then in a flash he'd left to his feet, standing on her desk and wringing his ears anxiously. "Of course, my darling! I should've thought of that . . . Forget I said anything! It's like I wasn't here." Embarrassed and awkward, he shuffled his feet and murmured, "So, uh, how has work been?"

"Good. In fact, I could use your help, if you have a moment." Of course he had a moment; his work schedule was the most intense she'd ever seen, but somehow he managed to get everything done in record time, producing shorts almost daily and always with time to spare for his Jessica. As she explained her considerations with the girls — focusing heavily on Mink, as Roger had helped write at least half of the skits in their show — he scooted around so his head was resting on her shoulder, peering at the ledger though he couldn't understand most of it. The desk piled up with possible jokes, scenarios, and costumes, and most of his offerings were either so brilliant or so ridiculous that Jessica could hardly breathe from laughing (though she kept this quiet, because if her employees knew that she had a sense of humor they wouldn't be so afraid of her, which would be bad for business).

"Sooooooo," Roger finally said once the sketch plans had been safely filed under Mink, Minerva, "how's the . . . other business?" She made a point to never lie to her husband, but they by mutual consent rarely alluded to the fact that the Inky was more than a bar and nightclub. That he'd brought it up suggested something worried him.

"Fine." Rather than sniffing out the reason for his concern, she would wait patiently. Her husband wasn't exactly known for restraint, after all. "Going very smoothly, in fact."

"That's wonderful, my delightful phoenix." But the compliment seemed halfhearted, and after a moment he said, "This . . . other business . . . how long has it been around?"

Jessica shrugged delicately, letting her dress slip off her shoulder with the movement. "Not forever, but since before I took over." Was he going to tell her that it was immoral? Normally he kept himself out of her business unless she asked for help, and both of them were happier that way.

He was not to be distracted. "Was it by any chance part of _your _job? When you were a singer here?" He was going back to the 1930s, when both of them had been newly drawn.

"Of course not, dear." This was the second lie she'd ever told him, and it came as smoothly off her tongue as the first. That one had actually been the same, told on the night they'd met._  
><em>

_"Mr. Acme says that the girls here aren't of — of good repute," he'd stammered, leaning away from her and fiddling with his ears. "He said it's bad news to get involved with them. He . . . he doesn't want scandal." She could tell he'd liked her, though, and because his fame had exploded from obscurity in a matter of months he still wasn't used to getting attention from . . . well, anyone. Not _positive _attention, at least._

_"Of course not," she'd cooed, scooting closer to him and thinking of the nice fat paycheck R. K. Maroon was going to give her. "Just a singer."_

Maroon had owned the club then, and since toons weren't allowed as patrons, he'd had to talk Marvin Acme into having Roger meet them outside — under the pretense of having a celebratory dinner with both the studio head and his newest star. Apparently Acme hadn't trusted his friend and had filled the young rabbit's head with warnings about girls like Jessica, who'd just happened to be on a cigarette break when they arrived outside the Inky.

_Maroon had pulled her close and whispered, "That's the one. We'll come back in time for your song, so make it good. Then take a cig break as soon as that curtain falls and get out here immediately. You don't have any clients until that rabbit works for Maroon Studios, understand?"_

_"How will I make him leave Acme?" she'd murmured._

_He'd given her a look like he couldn't believe how dumb she was. "Make us seem more _appealing_, doll."_

Unfortunately for Acme, the seduction worked, and she talked Roger into switching studios, bringing Baby Herman along with him. Unfortunately for Maroon, however, Jessica fell in love with the second most famous bunny in Hollywood, and the day he asked her to marry him she'd gone to the club and quit. That had been a wonderful night, the high of her engagement mingling with being able to tell Maroon exactly what she thought of him, threatening to expose his side business to the police (who probably already knew, but would be forced to take action if she made a big enough fuss about it) if he ever breathed a word to her husband. He hadn't liked her after that — even less after she returned to the Ink and Paint Club once it was sold to someone else. And while the side business flourished as well under new management as it had under old, she'd never had to be involved with it, thanks to the fame of her husband. And almost eighty years later, Roger still had no idea how — or why — they'd actually met.

She couldn't help it, though. Despite everything she'd expected or planned, he had slipped past her defenses, and intentional seduction had turned into an actual relationship. He was just so guileless, so enthusiastic, and so ridiculously sweet that it cut through everything cynical and jaded she'd armored herself with. And, of course, he'd made her laugh. She'd fallen in love before she'd even known it, and by then she couldn't say anything without being terrified that he'd lose all respect for her.

"Oh, okay!" Roger said, so trusting that it made her a little guilty and snapped her out of her memories. "But boy, the things you've done for this place. Just think of it, buying the Ink and Paint Club and opening it to all toons and humans! In the _70s_! No one thought it could be done, but here we are and here _you _are. My wife is a hero for toons everywhere! I remember the day it opened . . . there were riots down the street, but I was there to protect you and . . ."

One wouldn't think it to look at her, but Jessica was quite a romantic in her own odd way. Part of her hoped that someday one of the other girls would have a story like hers, and she used it as one of the private intangible reasons to keep the other business going. It hadn't happened yet, as far as she knew, but it could.

Her finger ran over Yakko Warner's name again, watching Roger chatter with a tender expression that she hid from everyone but him. _It certainly could._

* * *

><p>AN: Oh man, I'd hoped that after an entire year of being AWOL, I'd manage to write about something actually _happening_. Whelp, chalk this up to character development and try to ignore the fact that this story is still plotless after 18 chapters. I just hope you guys are finding it entertaining anyway, because I'm having a blast writing it and don't feel like shoehorning in some extra conflict just so it feels more "exciting."

At least it's long, though longer perhaps than I would like. I just couldn't resist adding that bit about Jessica and Roger even though I was past my usual word limit. I want to make my madam seem a bit more sympathetic, and a little Roger/Jessica fluff is always necessary, even if it adds an extra 2,000+ words. I guess _I'm_ also romantic in my own odd way, hence the cornball ending. :3

And yes, that story exists. It's called "Accident D'Amour" by Wildy Petoud, and I read it for my Literature of Horror class. It was awesome and also extremely disturbing. I'd recommend it, but only if you read up a bit about the whole theory of the splatterpunk movement to fully understand it (and haven't eaten or plan on eating for a while). Hope my inner English major didn't get too overwhelming there. I know it's a little indulgent of me, but I think there's enough evidence in the show to suggest that Yakko would be a big literature geek. That's how I'm choosing to read it, anyway, and I think it's a fun little facet of his personality.


	19. The History

A/N: Hey dolls! What have you guys been up to these last 8 months? I've gotten accepted into grad school, started a blog snarking YA literature, and mostly panicked about becoming an adult. But you know what else I've done?

I FOUND A PLOT!

Yes, after 17 chapters, this story finally has a an end in sight, where all the loose ends will be tied up (hopefully!) and shenanigans will ensue. With any luck this will mean updates will be far more regular than they've been, and I'm so excited to bring you guys with me. Enjoy this chapter — it's full of angst and melodrama, which I know you all love or you wouldn't be reading this. Toss a review my way if you wouldn't mind, and happy reading!

* * *

><p>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<p>

"Tell me about your parents."

Yakko glanced up at her, a shrimp dangling from his lips. "Kinda personal, dontcha think?" he asked, twisting the poor crustacean with his teeth and tongue. No matter how mature he pretended to be, he had a habit of playing with his food that reminded Emily of Dot. _Must be a Warner thing_, she thought, not sure whether she meant the toons drawn by Warner Bros. or the strange, charming siblings who'd taken a shine to her and wouldn't go away.

Not that she minded.

Her cheeks were pink, but she met his gaze steadily. Six months ago a question like that would've turned her into a stammering, blushing mess — if she got up the courage to ask at all — but after Yakko had decided she was a decent way to alleviate his boredom, they'd hung out two or three nights every week, which made her a lot more comfortable around the caustic toon. He usually appeared on her doorstep on their nights off, when Susan and Minerva would disappear to Hello Nurse's house for some time away from "their brats" (as Minky said), and Dot . . .

The bathroom door flew open and the youngest Warner sashayed out in a cloud of steam and perfume. "What'dya think, Em?" she asked, striking a dramatic pose. "Am I cute enough to get into the Pumphandle for free?"

"I . . ." She turned to Yakko anxiously, only to find the chair he'd been lounging in empty. "You look great as usual, Dottie."

"If I weren't in such a good mood I'd knock your head in for that," she replied with a laugh, giving Emily a kiss on the cheek. "Sure you don't wanna come? I know you like reading and being a nerd, but dancing's really fun. I'll take care of you so it won't be like last time." She patted her purse with a grin. "I've got mace and _a_ mace in here. Let's see some creep try to get his hands on you without losing his kneecaps."

Emily shook her head, wincing as a sharp pain jabbed the back of her scalp. She heard Yakko hiss in alarm and quickly talked over him: "I'm really okay. Go have fun and call me if you need anything."

She appreciated Dot's willingness to let her tag along, but knew that her best friend would spend the entire time watching her like a hawk, making sure that she wasn't being molested again. The memory made her stomach clench; it had been her first and only experience being drunk, and she'd been cornered by a massive guy who'd recognized her from the Inky and assumed he could get "free service." The only service he'd gotten was from an ambulance after Dot whacked him with her beer bottle (and tried to carve him into ribbons with the broken glass), but the experience had ruined the appeal of clubbing for her.

Dot needed a break to unwind and have some fun. There was no point in being a burden.

"Well, fine . . ." Brightening, she skipped over to the door. "There's no way I'm paying for a drink tonight! Don't wait up!" With a loud _slam!_, she was gone.

Immediately Yakko popped up from his hiding place in the couch cushions. "Sorry, sorry," he said, lifting his wrist to show her what had happened. A glossy black curl had caught on his watch when she'd shaken her head. "Gimme a sec and let me know if I hurt you." She watched with amusement as he worked to separate the her hair, his tongue poking out in concentration and his brows furrowed like he was trying to disarm a bomb. When she was free, he bounced back over to the chair, pulling his Chinese food from the air behind his back.

Emily pulled her hair into a messy ponytail that hung to the middle of her back. "You know she doesn't like seeing you around here," she scolded.

"And she didn't. I'm practically invisible." When that didn't earn him the laugh he'd been hoping for, he sighed. "I was dying of boredom, okay? Wakko took the night shift this week and there's only so long I can read before I want to kill myself. You realize I've read all the adult fiction in the Burbank library? I'm stuck in the YA section now, which is _terrible._" He pulled a book out of the air and looked at it with disgust. "When my options are this John Green crap or running the risk of Dot using her medieval weapons on my knees, can you blame me for coming over early?"

In his own way, Yakko could be as melodramatic as Dot. She knew he enjoyed performing (even though he was usually the only appreciative audience), but sometimes he used it to avoid talking about things that made him uncomfortable. Where the youngest Warner preferred to confront her problems with screaming, more often than not it seemed the eldest just wanted to ignore them. "So, your parents?" When he wrinkled his nose in distaste she said, "Come on, you know everything about where I come from, and all I've heard is that you guys were born. I've never met a natural-born toon before — not that I know of anyway. Disney keeps that stuff quiet — and . . . I'm curious." Wait, was that rude? "Not that you have to say anything if you don't want to! I don't want to put you on the spot . . ." Like she already had. Damn it! "Never mind, I'll just . . ." Looking down to hide the heat that was spreading in blotches across her cheeks and neck, she turned to her dinner and began fiddling with the noodles.

To her relief he didn't seem annoyed, chuckling at her embarrassment and holding his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine, I'll tell you. Just quit the flustered act." When she opened her mouth to protest that it _wasn't _an act, he added, "I know, sweetheart. Just messing with you." The amusement fading from his face, he looked down into his dinner, gnawing on the end of his plastic spork for a few minutes. "It's kinda a buzzkill," he finally said. "I don't wanna bring the party down."

"It's okay." Whether she meant it was okay that the story was depressing, or that he didn't have to tell her, neither of them were quite sure.

His lips twitched, a smirk she couldn't read appearing and disappearing immediately. "I know." Taking a deep breath, he tilted his head back to the ceiling and tried to figure out where to begin.

* * *

><p>He'd been fourteen when he saw them in a book. <em>"Hey, Waks," he said, calling his little brother away from the pile of Legos he was playing with (and eating). "These guys look familiar to you?"<em>

_Wakko lumbered over, chewing on a yellow piece of plastic. "I guess like Mickey and Minnie — if you squint, I mean," he said, leaning in close to the page. "Why?"_

_"Don't you think they look a little like . . . us?"_

_He shrugged and let out a wall-shaking burp, which immediately brought their little sister running._

_"WAKKO, YOU MADE MY NAIL POLISH FALL OVER AND NOW IT'S ON MY FAVORITE DRESS!" When she saw the serious way their older brother was staring down at the book, though, her curiosity overcame her anger. Coming up behind him, she read, "'Oswald the Lucky Rabbit and his girlfriend, Sadie the Cat.' What's so special about them?"_

_"Yakko thinks they look like us," Wakko said, returning to his Legos._

_Though only ten years old, Dot was already too smart for her own good. She gave him her best side-eye and hopped onto the table next to him. "Drawn in 1927," she said, pointing down at the paper. "They're way too old to be our parents, Yakko."_

_"I know!" he said defensively, shoving away from the table and tucking the book under his arm. "Just thought it was a weird coincidence, that's all." _

_She didn't look like she believed him. "Listen, last time was Bosko and Honey, and you disappeared for three days without a word. Why do you care so much about finding them?" she asked. "They obviously don't want us anymore."_

* * *

><p>"I guess I was tired," he told Emily, shaking his head ruefully and flipping a water chestnut into the air like it was a coin. "We knew the show was coming to an end soon, and while there was enough money to get by and Plotz wouldn't let us starve or anything . . . it all felt like too much for a kid, you know? I just wanted a parent to take care of everything."<p>

Emily wanted to reach over and pat his shoulder or squeeze his hand, do any of the million things she'd been trained to do to comfort princesses during the third-act drama, but she didn't want to make him self-conscious and end the story. She thought he needed to tell it — and to be honest, she wanted to hear the ending. "Dot always said you took really good care of them," she murmured, neglecting to mention that Dot's version of "really good care" included the words "smothering" and "totally insane." "It can't have been easy."

He laughed bitterly, popping the chestnut into his mouth. "You have no idea."

* * *

><p><em>Bugs Bunny was his teacher at the time, fulfilling some contract or other by holding weekly classes in hammerspace for all the young Warner Bros. toons. Yakko had never been afraid to talk to him — he'd never been afraid to talk to <em>anyone _— but he had to admit he'd felt a little shaky when he approached the rabbit after class. "Um, Mister Bunny?"_

_Bugs rolled his eyes, shoving his supplies into a suitcase, which he then tossed over his shoulder. It disappeared into thin air. "Call me Bugs, doc," he said, then seemed to recognize him for the first time. "You're that Warner kid, right? On _Animaniacs_?" When Yakko nodded, he returned the gesture appreciatively, rooting around in his desk for something. "Funny show. You kids keep gettin' better, you could go anywhere."_

_He didn't want to tell his idol that Plotz was already talking about canceling, so he held the book out awkwardly and blurted out, "Did you know them?"_

_"Aha!" Bugs straightened, triumphantly holding a carrot between his fingers like a cigar. "Knew it was in dere somewhere." He took the book, inspecting the cover for a moment — "_Greatest Toons of the Silver Screen, _huh? Not bad, but only one chapter on yours truly? Shameful!" — before opening to the section Yakko had bookmarked. The second he saw their pictures, his face darkened. "Second-rate ripoffs," he said dismissively, snapping the book shut and handing it back to the kid. "Don't bother tryin' to find out about dem. Waste of time."_

_"Did they . . . did you hear about them having children?"_

_He froze for a second, but quickly chomped on the end of the carrot, trying to look nonchalant. "Dey's a little old, ain't dey? To be your folks?"_

_Yakko flushed and looked down, not realizing he'd been so transparent. "But . . . Thumper . . . You're not too old." The rabbit from _Bambi _had been the surprise result of a weekend in Vegas with "Sis," who'd grown up bored and rebellious after her stint on _Robin Hood._ (Yakko had learned all this from Slappy, who enjoyed regaling anyone who'd listen about the drama of her old cast-mates. Since she was usually assigned to keep the Warners in check when on set, they'd been the lucky recipients of this gossip.)_

_"Dat's different. It costs a lot of money to keep gettin' redrawn, and Ozzy an' Sadie didn't have dat kinda cash. I should know; dey always came to me when dey needed a loan."_

_His heart sank. "Thanks," he mumbled, turning to go._

_A gloved hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Listen, kid," Bugs said gently, "it's better if dey aren't your parents. Rumor around here is dat dey was sick in the head, livin' in caves somewhere when dere cash ran out. You don't wanna get caught up in all dat. Plotz takes care of ya, right?"_

_"I guess," he said sullenly, making the bunny laugh._

_"Never seems like it as a kid. But he's good people. Not _nice_, but good. Trust me, you're better off not knowing."_

* * *

><p>"So they're your parents, right?" Emily asked, too enthralled in the story to realize she was butting in. "I mean . . . sorry!" She stuffed some rice into her mouth to shut herself up.<p>

But he didn't mind. Despite the unsavory nature of the story, he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed telling them. And he was pretty good at it, if he said so himself. Still, he couldn't resist winking at her and saying, "You're a regular Sherlock, aren't you?" smiling inwardly at the way she buried her face in her hands to hide the darker blush.

"Keep going," she muttered into her hands. "I'll be quiet, I promise."

He tossed a baby corn cob at her to lift her out of her shame, then continued. "I figured as much too. I mean, I think Bugs wouldn't lie, but looking back . . . technically, he didn't say anything that _was _a lie. Not really.

"So that meant breaking into the old Acme files. Which meant I needed to get my sibs to help."

* * *

><p><em>He didn't tell them what he was looking for. The way Bugs talked about Oswald and Sadie, it didn't sound like something he wanted Wakko or Dot to know the truth about until he figured out what it actually was. <em>_Instead he told them he had a crush on some nurse and wanted to figure out where to find her._

_"Why not just ask around?" Dot asked, her hands on her hips. "If you saw her on set, someone must know her."_

_Yakko was thrown for half a second, but flashed her his most charming smile. "Come on, sis. Where's the romance in that?"_

_In the end, she couldn't resist the chance to create a little mayhem, and the two of them created a diversion that brought everyone out of the lobby (he didn't know exactly what they did, but he knew it involved a lot of beans and soda, and that Dot had insisted Yakko give her his nose before they began), allowing him to sneak into the basement where the files were kept._

_The archives were well-organized, which was the only reason he found what he needed before being discovered. But there wasn't much: episode lists, a pile of film reels, and two ink certificates that included their full names, their studio, and their animator. The odds of getting information out of Terry Gilford weren't great (he'd be 90 years old if still alive, and most __nonagenarians__ were less-than-lucid), but Yakko figured he could track down the guy's children (if he had any) and beg them to let him go through the old man's animation studio, or at least find out what they knew._

_There was something else at the very bottom of their file. Picking it up and flipping through the stapled pages, he realized this was a record of the stars' redrawing appointments, including the animator (Gilford every time), dates leading to 1986, prices — and Bugs wasn't kidding about the expense — and the signature of who had paid._

_Running his fingers down the column of Bugs Bunny's signatures, he had just enough time to think_ So I'm on the right track _before he__ was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and hauled up to Plotz's office._

* * *

><p>"Did you tell him what you were there for?" She really had to stop interrupting, but she couldn't help it; as he spoke, she kept inching closer and closer to the end of the couch closest to his chair, and with this question slid onto the floor at his feet. Logically, she knew that sitting closer wouldn't help her hear the story any better, but it was instinct.<p>

"Of course not," he said, his forehead wrinkling as he looked down at her. With a shrug, he went boneless and slithered out of his chair, lying flat on the ground next to her and crossing his arms behind his head. "Told him the same story I fed Wakko and Dot. It wasn't like Plotz could ground me or anything — we had to shoot the next day. But as soon as I found Gilford's address in the phone book, I took the first bus out to Texas."

Emily wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of her knees. "Texas? How did you find him there?"

"It took a _lot _of phone books. Anyway, _that_ was a long bus ride. And lucky me, he was still alive, turning to dust in a retirement home under the scorching southern sun."

* * *

><p><em>Yakko had figured he'd need to remind Gilford of who Oswald and Sadie were, but the old man still had most of his marbles, and the second he heard the names his face went white. "You're one of them, aren't you?" he asked, lifting a trembling hand to Yakko's face. The toon recoiled, but Gilford didn't seem to notice. "They told me about you. Three of you, right?"<em>

_He sat down on Gilford's bed, wary, like the geezer would somehow leap up out of his rocking chair and . . . what, exactly? Attack him? __Or just tell him the truth?_

_"They were good toons," Gilford continued. "I always loved them. That's why I tried to help." His hands tightened on the arms of his rocking chair until they turned gray. "I only wanted to help them, understand?"_

_"Help them how?" Yakko asked, but the animator seemed to forget that he was there, speaking into the air with a dreamy, stricken look on his face._

_"They were my first real toons. The first who came to life, I mean. I was only twenty, and that was my first job. I was so proud . . . and they were good. I loved them like they were my children. And they loved me, too. __That's where it all went wrong, their loving me."_

* * *

><p>"According to Gilford, my parents considered him their father, and they always felt bad about not being human like he was. Prejudice was worse then than it is now, and I guess it warped their minds. He said they couldn't stop talking about becoming real humans and being worthy of his love."<p>

* * *

><p><em>"I never <em>wanted_ them to change, understand. But they were obsessed; lost all their money in charms and creams and other quack methods of turning toons into humans. Sadie even drank paint thinner once, thinking there was a 'real human' under all the ink. If Oswald hadn't brought her to me . . . It took all night to redraw her. I had to keep sending my wife out for ink bottles, she was losing it so fast._

_"When they were no longer stars they moved in with me, away from Burbank and Hollywood. I hoped the isolation would make them happier, and without their money they had no one else to turn to. We raised them as our own, Evelyn and I, and when they were called back by the studio for cameos and anniversaries, I drew them back like the years had never happened. But that only reminded them of how different they were."_

* * *

><p>"He pushed them to have my sibs and I. Thought it'd make them feel more 'normal,' or at least give them something to think about besides their inferiority complex. When I didn't help, they had Wakko. Then Dot." His jaw tightened. "And when that didn't work, they tried something else."<p>

* * *

><p><em>"They spent years studying animation textbooks, and I hoped . . . maybe they wanted to become animators like their old man. Looking back I know it was foolish. They hated toons, thought it was the worst misery that could be inflicted on a living thing. They'd never want to make more freaks. They couldn't even look at you and your siblings by the end."<em>

_Yakko wanted to interrupt him, to jump to his feet and demand the short, slightly less painful version, but there was a lump in his throat that made words impossible. He felt like he couldn't breathe, let alone speak or move._

_"One day, when the youngest child was just a year old, they came to me with giant smiles, bouncing with excitement. They said they'd studied animation theory and toon physics, and they'd found the solution. They knew how to make themselves human. And they wanted me to do it for them, then for you children if it went well. __I should've told them it was impossible. I knew better — I know how toons are made, and there's no way they can become human. But the look on their faces . . . I hadn't seen them smile in years. I couldn't disappoint them. And m__aybe my mind was growing feeble, but I thought maybe they could do it, that there was some loophole in the laws of the universe and they'd found it. They were perfect the way they were, I didn't want to change them for anything, and Evelyn would've refused if she'd been there, but she had died three months ago and I was still trying to find my life again. __I was so scared they'd do it anyway, with someone who didn't love them and wouldn't be as careful. Or that they'd make themselves turpentine cocktails if I refused._

_"I loved them, you see. That's why I did it. I loved them."_

* * *

><p>His voice caught on the last word, and he leapt to his feet, walking away from her and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. For a moment they were frozen like that, her curled up on the floor with silent tears running down her cheeks (Mister had leapt onto the chair next to her and was trying to lick them up), him facing the kitchen, gasping strangled, ragged breaths that shook with the futile effort of keeping them in.<p>

Sniffling, she tried to push the cat towards Yakko, but he dug his claws into the ratty fabric and hissed. "Go," she whispered as softly as she could. "_He_ needs furry comfort, not me. Get over there, you useless ball of fluff."

Yakko's ears twitched — he had better hearing than she'd thought — and his hands lowered. As she finally managed to coax Mister into examining one of their guest's large white feet, sniffing it delicately before rubbing his face over it, he took a deep breath that seemed to steady him. Kneeling down to scratch the cat's ears, he glanced over his shoulder at her. "You're a regular Doctor Doolittle, huh?"

She nodded, wiping her face furiously. What right did _she_ have to be sad? "Disney power," she explained weakly. "Annoying sometimes, but useful." When he didn't respond, she said, "I-I'm sorry I made you tell the story. You don't have to — I mean, I wish —"

He shook his head, running the hand not occupied with Mister's chin through his "hair" (which was really just slightly-thicker fur on top of his head). "Don't be. Someone has to hear it. I mean, it's part of our history, isn't it? They . . . they were my parents. And they died trying to become human."

* * *

><p><em>"I did everything I could. But there's no way to change what a toon is, and by the time I realized it was doomed, it was too late.<em>

_"Sadie had insisted on going first. Oswald had done the most research about it, so he was able to talk me through the operation. When it failed, he said he was going to get more ink. So I could . . . so she would look right at the burial._

_"When I found him in the supply cabinet, he had swallowed two canisters of paint thinner. I refused to keep any of it in the house, but they must have purchased and hidden it. Just — just in case."_

_"What about us?" Yakko asked, finally able to find his words. "They didn't . . . ?"_

_He started, turning to the boy with watery eyes as if suddenly remembering he was there. "They never wanted to hurt you children. Even at their most broken, they wouldn't — _couldn't_ — do anything to you."_

_"Why?" But he didn't want the answer to that question, and he doubted the old man would have it anyway. So he changed his tactic. "Why did we end up in Burbank? Why didn't we stay with you, if you're our . . . grandfather?" __The word felt odd in his mouth, distasteful in a way he couldn't quite define._

_The tears that had been clouding Gilford's eyes overflowed, spilling into the deep rivets of his cheeks. "I called the police as soon as I found Oswald. This man, toon — Plots, or Plouch, or something — was in charge of their estates." At Yakko's blank expression, he added, "Animators don't have any ownership of our children, not legally. So when he learned what had happened, what I had helped to do . . . He was going to put me in jail if he could, sue me out of everything I owned if he couldn't. If he thought he could get away with it, I think he would've killed me."_

_"Plotz?" Sure, the cranky bastard was mean, but murderous? On behalf of some toons he barely knew? "Why?"_

_"It was bad timing. There had been a high-profile case of humans killing toons in Los Angeles, terrorists with gas bombs filled with aerosolized turpentine. 1987 was a bad year for toons. Oswald said it was a sign that things had to change, and he thought they'd found the answer."_

_Yakko felt like he was going to be sick. "The answer was curing us of our . . . tooniness?" Of who they _were_?_

_"He was very sick, child. His mind —"_

_"And who broke his mind, huh?" His hands were balled into fists, but he forced them open with clenched teeth. He'd get the rest of the story and get out of here, back to his siblings and other toons. Where he belonged. "So Plotz took custody of us."_

_"There was another man, a doctor. A psychiatrist. He gave me an examination and declared me no danger to other toons. I think maybe he understood, if not my reasons, then my regret. The others at Warner Bros. — the humans — didn't want this story getting out and casting a shadow over their reputation. They pretended Oswald and Sadie had retired and moved to the mountains to be alone. In exchange for my freedom, Plotz was given custody of you three. He wouldn't accept any other option. __It was the most painful decision I had ever made, even more than . . . well. I knew that man would treat you well, but you were all that was left of my children. As time has passed, I can think of nothing but them."_

_With great effort, he pushed himself out of the rocking chair, swaying dangerously before steadying himself. He held his hands out to Yakko, growing teary again. "I am so terribly sorry. You didn't deserve any of this, and neither did they."_

_Yakko stared at Gilford, at his shaky attempts to stay upright, the desperate, miserable apology in his eyes. It was pathetic. It made him want to cry._

_He didn't want it, any of it._

_Without another word, he stepped past his "grandfather" and ran as fast as he could away from that place._

* * *

><p>"I wanted nothing more than to get out of there and return back home, but I didn't leave for another two weeks or so. I felt paralyzed. Sometimes I wanted to go back to Gilford and yell at him, demand he fix things . . . sometimes even forgive him. I couldn't do that, but I couldn't leave. So I stayed in Dallas and slept on the sidewalk, watching humans walk past and hating them."<p>

Yakko returned to where she was curled up, crying again. Not looking at her, he sat at her side, their backs to the chair, their eyes on Minerva's one window and the flickering yellow lights outside it. "I'd never hated anyone before, and suddenly I despised an entire species. I thought they'd robbed me of my parents. I thought there was no more evil society than the one that would make toons loathe themselves, rather die than be who they are. One that stole my mom and dad."

"But you never told your siblings?"

"Would you?" She pressed her face against her knees, hoping to staunch the flow of tears, and his voice softened. "Even at my most angry, I knew that hatred wasn't good for me. I didn't want them to have it, so I carried enough hate for all of us. But when Dot started picking it up — from me, from the rising tensions between toons and humans, who knows? — and acting even worse than I did, I realized things were going to end in more paint thinner if we didn't do something.

"So I decided to straighten myself out. Plotz said he was going to pull all support out from under us if we got in serious trouble again, so I got the first job I could afford schooling for. And for someone who spent so much time acting as crazy as he could in order to spite humans, I didn't pay any attention to what was actually going on with them, because it was news to _me _when everyone started calling me a traitor." He shrugged. "But it's better than being on the street, and if humans are going to be the dominant species, I might as well be on the right side."

Emily lifted her face from her knees. "But you don't hate them anymore," she said in awe. "How do you turn something like that off?"

"I went to an integrated community college. Kinda hard to hate people you have to see all the time, especially when they aren't the life-ruining jackasses you thought they were." He laughed. "The turning point was actually this guy named Phil. Loved my show and tried to mimic some of the tricks. He showed them to me, and I realized that some of them want to be like us." He looked away, embarrassed at the emotion in his voice. "Besides, he was pretty good at some of them. Funny guy. And he helped me out when toons gave me a hard time."

She didn't know what to say, so she stroked the top of his head like he was Mister. Dot found it comforting (though her fur was usually sticky and tangled with hairspray where his was soft and silky, and thicker than she'd expected), and she hoped it would convey everything she couldn't say out load: her admiration at his bravery, his goodness, his protectiveness over his siblings, that he could change his mind and his destiny. And his ability to survive what his parents couldn't. "I'm sorry, Yakko."

"Thank you, Em. I needed that."

_That _hadn't been the response she'd expected. Her hand dropping from his fur, she said, "What are you talking about?"

He just looked at her for a moment with a small, sad smile, long enough to make her tear-flushed face grow even redder at the attention. Finally he lifted his arm and swiped at her cheeks with his sleeve, gentle and practiced in a way that made her realize he'd done this countless times for his siblings. "I needed someone to listen, and to care."

She nodded, and there was an uncomfortable moment as he noticed he was still touching her face even though the tears were dried away. A hint of pink showing through his white fur, he reached over his head and grabbed his food, popping shrimp into his mouth and flashing her a bright grin.

"So come on. Try topping _that _story."

She couldn't, not in a million years. But she sprawled out on the floor and did her best to keep that smile on his face.

* * *

><p>AN: Gahhhhh, romance is hard. Romance written at 3 am on a school night is even harder. Please let me know if it comes across as awkward or rushed or otherwise unnatural, because that is my biggest fear in writing love interests; I'm not experienced in what it's like to fall in love, so I need a little help describing it. (It doesn't help that I'm not especially romantic. I'm a cynic through and through!)

Anyway, I hope you liked it and that you're excited for all the plot that's coming! The _Little Glimpse of Leg _train is finally on tracks, and hopefully it won't be a giant wreck!


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